


build me up from ashes // though i feel so far from home

by elsinorerose, shaypotter



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Other Mighty Nein Members, Romance, also there's some mild fantasy racism in here, discussion of abuse and torture in later chapters, explicit sex in later chapters, gratuitous saccharine fluff in all chapters, just so you know, royal au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25150735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsinorerose/pseuds/elsinorerose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaypotter/pseuds/shaypotter
Summary: “Jester knows the story, of course. Everyone does. It's all anyone seems to talk about: how the good old king Leofric and his beloved queen died seventeen years ago in that tragic fire, a terrible accident; how their only son and heir, the prince, lost his mind from grief and had to be sent away to be cured in the countryside; how his bereaved uncle reluctantly accepted the burden of kingship — and how it all turned out to be a lie.”(The arranged marriage AU that nobody asked for.)
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 226
Kudos: 380





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We wrote this almost a year ago. What with life getting in the way and other fics begging for our attention, this never ended up getting edited and posted, so we thought: why not during Widojest Week? Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title from "Ashes" by Mary Collins.

Caleb adjusts his cloak uncomfortably. The ceremonial robes that he has to wear now on days like this still feel...wrong, foreign. _At least they are not making me wear that gottverdammt crown,_ he thinks grimly.

"We are definitely sure about this, Beauregard?" he mutters, glancing to the side at his friend — his advisor, actually, which is...also something he is still getting used to. 

There is a lot to get used to these days.

Beauregard clears her throat at his side, scratching at the back of her neck. "We’re pretty fucking sure, not to mention it’s a little _late_ for your reservations. She’s just traveled three weeks to get here." She speaks quietly and close to his ear, so that only Caleb can hear her. "We need this," she reminds him. "We need Nicodranas, we need the Menagerie Coast, we need the Clovis Concord. Lady Lavorre is a pretty fucking big deal. The mother, I mean."

All of this Caleb knows, of course, but it doesn’t hurt to have it repeated. He can detect an undertone of guilt in Beauregard’s voice — no one is exactly _thrilled_ about this match. Half of the council would have preferred someone of higher status, someone who could cement a better alliance than the daughter of the late lord of a small city-state on the Menagerie Coast. The other half is concerned about her personal qualifications. _Foreigner. Tiefling. So young, only twenty. The people may not take to her as queen. She will face obstacles._ But everyone has agreed by now that this younger Lady Lavorre is, of course, the best and only choice for the match. There are no other eligible princesses from Xhorhas, Tal’dorei, Marquet, or even distant Vasselheim. So the Concord it is. 

Beauregard’s guilt stems from someplace closer to home. She knows that, plain and simple, Caleb doesn’t want to get married. He has only been king for three months, and that’s being generous with the timeline. He has a great deal more on his mind right now than finding a queen. 

Caleb appreciates her sympathy. But it doesn’t — can’t — change what has to happen. 

*

"Stop fidgeting," Fjord murmurs, nudging her discreetly with his elbow. 

Jester flushes, turning frustrated eyes on her bodyguard and friend. "I’m not _fidgeting,"_ she hisses back as she _absolutely_ continues to fidget. 

They’re in one of what she assumes is _many_ sitting rooms in this giant palace, and the ornate wooden chairs are uncomfortable after their long journey. She subtly wipes her palms over the fine fabric of her skirt, ignoring Fjord’s tired huff of annoyance. She’s here, isn’t she? She’s already made a huge sacrifice, she’s allowed to _move_ if she so chooses. If it bothers the king, well, he may as well learn sooner than later what sort of woman he's tying himself to: a fidgety one.

There's a knock on the door and someone pokes her head in. It's Yasha, the captain of the royal guard, who escorted Jester and Fjord here all the way from Nicodranas. She looks as awkward and hesitant as usual, even dressed in her fine armor and cleaned up from the long weeks of travel, as she says, "Lady Lavorre, you can come with me now."

Jester tries to smile, she really does. Yasha has been kind, in her own stumbling way, and over the past three weeks they have formed something resembling a friendship. She's the only thing here — besides Fjord — that doesn't feel absolutely strange and foreign.

"Thank you," she murmurs, though the words feel forced. She rises from her chair and follows Yasha. Fjord remains a few steps behind her. Jester can tell that he's on edge, that this unfamiliar territory doesn't feel much safer to him than the open road. She can't blame him; she feels the same way.

_It's only been a few hours,_ says a small, reasonable corner of her mind. _You'll get used to it eventually._

_Fuck off,_ the rest of her snarls back.

Yasha leads them through what feels like miles of hallways and doors, telling them in her quiet, stilted voice not to worry, that they’ll learn the lay of the palace quickly. Jester doesn't believe her even for a second. _Who even needs this many rooms?_ she wonders bitterly as they make their way towards the audience chamber where she will meet her soon-to-be husband. She imagines herself trying to find the kitchen and ending up lost in a maze of corridors, wandering for days until she starves to death. There's something morbidly satisfying in the thought. _Just as long as it happens_ after _this marriage goes through,_ she reminds herself, _for Mama's sake._

Finally Yasha brings them to a set of large double doors. "This is the Silver Hall," she murmurs, hesitating. "They're all just inside."

Jester appreciates the moment to collect herself. She inhales deeply and thinks of her mother, of their last hug nearly a month ago — of Nicodranas, the cry of the gulls and the scent of the ocean breeze — of — 

_I'm right here with you,_ a voice pops into her mind, verdant and smiling.

Some of the tension vanishes from her neck and shoulders. _Thank you,_ she thinks, and she imagines a warm green cloak, wrapping her up and keeping her safe.

Then Yasha is opening the doors, and Jester's heart begins to pound.

*

In the audience chamber, Caleb nervously flicks a flame in and out of existence above his palm. At least it's the smaller chamber, he reminds himself. The Silver Hall, it's called, to distinguish it from the far grander Golden Hall, where the actual throne sits, daunting and terrible, and crowds of courtiers and petitioners are welcome at any hour of the day. He'd managed to negotiate this much, after days of arguing with Hass and Thelyss and the rest of his advisors. 

"I am not going to meet her for the first time, welcome her to the place she's going to _live forever,_ in front of hundreds of strangers," Caleb had nearly snapped at the end of a long afternoon of planning. _"Für die liebe der götter,_ let us at least have some _semblance_ of privacy, Essek!"

Now that it's come to it, though, Caleb wonders whether that was the right call after all. At least in a grand hall full of crowds he would have something to look at, to distract him, besides...four walls, a floor, a ceiling, and silence. And Beauregard at his side, of course, but since when has Beauregard been helpful with this sort of thing?

"Chin up," she offers awkwardly, as if she can read his mind.

Caleb is about to reply with an annoyed glare, but the next moment he hears footsteps on the tiled floor outside, and then the doors are opening.

_Hier kommt die braut,_ he thinks, hoping he doesn't look as pale and self-conscious as he feels. 

Yasha enters first. She clasps her hands behind her back and announces, in a quiet voice that nonetheless echoes throughout the chamber: "Lady Genevieve Lavorre, his Imperial Highness Bren Ermendrud, king of the Dwendalian Empire and lord of Rexxentrum."

He looks younger than the portrait Jester was shown. Whoever painted it was probably trying to exaggerate his experience, his wisdom, his strength, his...whatever other qualities a good king is supposed to have; but in the flesh Bren Ermendrud looks...tired and awkward. His auburn hair is pulled back into a neat tie and he's certainly dressed for the part, in lavish robes and a blood-red mantle hanging from his shoulders by gold clasps. And he’s not...unhandsome, by any means. But he doesn't look _happy._

_Good,_ Jester thinks with no small amount of anger. He should be as unhappy as she is, uprooted from her home and sent to marry a stranger with a history so unbelievable that she still isn’t positive it’s true. She’d do anything for her mother, for the home she loves, but that doesn't mean she's going to enjoy it, and she can't help but blame the man in front of her. It's his fault, somehow, that her life will never be her own again.

Caleb hears Yasha's words as if from a distance, vaguely annoyed that these introductions are even necessary in the first place — oh _that's_ the king, the one in the king's outfit from the king's portrait? — but he's more focused on the sight of the woman before him. Lady Lavorre is walking gracefully towards him, the light from the chamber's many windows catching on the sapphires hanging from her ears and horns and the necklace resting in the hollow of her throat. Her dress, a delicate lavender that highlights her blue skin and darker blue hair, flows softly around her feet. A man in Nicodrani military garb stands respectfully a few feet from the door — her bodyguard, Caleb guesses — but he barely pays him any notice.

He swallows hard and descends the few short steps to meet her in the center of the hall…

...and finds he has no words. 

He's sure he'd planned _something,_ some small greeting, a few words to break the ice and set Lady Lavorre at ease, but it's all flown out of his head. Scheisse, it _is_ a good thing they're doing this in private — imagine if the whole court were here, watching him stare dumbfounded at this woman as he grasps uselessly for a _single phrase, anything._

Jester stares back, waiting for the king to speak. She can see the woman behind him, whose navy-blue scholar's robes mark her out as a high-ranking member of the Cobalt Soul, shifting her weight uncomfortably as the silence grows. An embarrassed flush rises in Jester's cheeks, and her resentment towards this man only increases. It's _his turn_ to say something, she's not supposed to introduce herself first, she remembers at least this much from the rushed etiquette briefing she was given before leaving home. What is he waiting for?

In the end, the king simply extends his hand. Jester barely manages to keep her mouth from dropping open. Does he expect her to _shake_ it?

She doesn't. Instead she dips into a curtsy, spreading her skirts and dropping her gaze briefly to the tiled floor. "Your Highness," she murmurs.

He blinks and withdraws his hand, and Jester mentally winces. Their first moment of interaction, and she's managed to slight him. Well, he should have known better than to greet her that way. 

"Lady Lavorre," he murmurs, his words lightly accented. Jester recalls that he comes from a line of Zemnian kings. "Welcome to Rexxentrum."

"Thank you," she replies stiffly.

Another silence falls. She's not sure what else she's meant to say. _Nice to meet you, hope you're not a monster, are you excited to get hitched?_

Aware that Beauregard must be on the verge of lunging forward to strangle him, Caleb clears his throat. "I hope your journey was not too taxing."

"Not at all," Lady Lavorre replies. Her voice puts him in mind of cinnamon, a southern spice he tasted first as a child when a Damali ambassador visited court and brought samples of her city's local delicacies. "It was kind of you to send Captain Yasha to protect us."

"Ja, of course," he manages to get out. "Ah — it was my pleasure, of course."

He's said _of course_ twice. And implied that he's doing any of this for _pleasure,_ which...not a great start, actually, lying to your future wife. In a slight panic he wonders how red his face has gone, as he looks into Genevieve Lavorre's eyes and sees what he can only assume is disgust.

Taking a deep breath, Caleb clasps his hands behind his back and forces himself to slip into his second skin, that mask of charisma and social grace that he was trained long ago to don at a moment's notice. He hates the feel of it, slimy and sick, like he's wearing a stranger's face, but...it is a tool, and one that, despite everything, he is grateful to have. 

"Your mother is called the Ruby of the Sea, is she not?" he asks in a pleasant, polite tone.

Lady Lavorre nods, and she offers him a small smile, like an afterthought. He wonders if she has her own version of a mask, and if he's watching her put it on for the first time. 

"Then you must be the Sapphire of the Sea." Scheisse. He can practically hear Beauregard groan. _Real smooth, Widogast,_ her imaginary voice taunts.

If Lady Lavorre is wearing a mask, however, then it's a very good one, because she gives no indication of having realized how ridiculous Caleb's stumbling attempt at flattery is. "My mother sends her greetings," she murmurs, "and her best wishes for your Highness's health and happiness."

"I am sorry that she could not be here with us." Caleb keeps his voice light. "I understand that it was impossible, of course, for her to take herself away from Nicodranas for so long. She must have a great many responsibilities as the ruler of such a prosperous city."

He has heard the rumors, of course: that Marion Lavorre is mad, or bedbound, or dying, or cursed — that, for whatever reason, she cannot venture out of her lavish palace even for the wedding of her only daughter. It was the final objection that any of Caleb's councillors had raised to this betrothal, and it had come from his master of spies, Ophelia Mardun. 

"There is some secret in the house of Lavorre that even my agents cannot uncover," she had said to him, "and a secret that I cannot break is a _dangerous_ secret, your Highness. You would do well to reconsider this arrangement."

He had dismissed her concerns as politely as possible. How much of a hypocrite would he have to be, he'd asked himself, to judge anyone based on the secrets of their past? Besides, whatever her mother may or may not have been hiding, Genevieve herself was clearly in good health and of sterling reputation, from what Ophelia's spies had reported. In the end, she had reluctantly agreed that, no, whatever the mystery might turn out to be, it was not likely to be so terrible as to imperil the realm or the royal line, and so the last hurdle was overcome.

"This must feel like a very strange place," Caleb continues gently. "I hope it will not feel like that forever. But we will do what we can for now, to make things as comfortable for you as possible."

Jester is suddenly swallowing hard and taking deep breaths to steady herself. She _won't_ cry in front of his Imperial Highness Bren Ermendrud, who has no business being _kind_ to her. She doesn't _want_ his kindness or his understanding. She wants things to go back to normal, before — before —

The image of Lord Robert Sharpe flashes before her mind's eye: his thinning hairline, portly belly, and that leer full of greed and lust. She almost shivers. Maybe awkward kindness isn't the worst thing in the world.

"Thank you," she replies softly, and this time she means it. He can't possibly know just how thankful she is — in fact, he must never know.

"Your Highness," speaks up the woman behind him. "Perhaps further introductions are in order."

The king turns, and Jester wonders if he's going to chastise his advisor for speaking so boldly, but he just glances at her and sighs. "Ja, you are right." He offers Jester his arm. "If you'll come this way, _meine Dame."_

Jester doesn't want to meet anyone else — she's exhausted, both physically and otherwise, and she _knows_ she's not in a state to remember any new names and faces — but this is part of the job, after all. The life of a marquess, Mama told her once, is not one of wealth and pleasure and freedom, but rather duty and hard work. How much more so the life of a queen, she imagines.

So she squares her shoulders and takes the king's arm. "Lead the way."

They pass through a side door into a much smaller antechamber, followed by Fjord and Yasha and the blue-robed monk. Within is a long table, and around it are more than a dozen figures, some sitting, others standing, engaged in hushed conversation. They all fall silent and take their seats the moment they notice Jester walk in.

King Ermendrud clears his throat. "This is Oremid Hass, the Archmage of Defense," he says, gesturing at the nearest councillor. Hass inclines his head politely. "Lord and Lady Brenatto, Chief Alchemist and Keeper of the Treasury, respectively." The halfling couple smile. "Shadowhand Essek Thelyss, the ambassador from Xhorhas. Baroness Ophelia Mardun of the Estate Sybaritic." A white-haired drow and a grey-skinned tiefling eye Jester with expressions that are impossible to read. "Caduceus Clay, High Cleric." This time Jester gets a friendly wave from the firbolg, whose pink hair might be the brightest thing in the room.

The king turns. "You have met Yasha Nydoorin, of course, the captain of my guard. And this — " he motions to the blue-robed monk — "is Expositor Beauregard Lionett of the Cobalt Soul, the Royal Archivist."

Expositor Lionett gives a short bow and takes a seat.

More names follow, until Jester's mind is whirling. She can feel everyone's gazes on her, sizing her up, probably estimating the size of her birthing hips and other things of that nature. Her tail flicks in agitation behind her. She wonders how many of these people hate her for being about to sully the Ermendrud lineage with her tiefling blood. She wonders how the king feels about it.

Finally, when everyone has been introduced, Jester musters up what she hopes is a convincing smile. "I look forward to getting to know you all," she says, then turns to glance behind her. "This is Captain Fjord, the head of my household guard. He has been my protector for many years now. I hope a good place can be found for him here."

"That can be done," replies Yasha. "It won't be a problem at all."

Caleb runs a hand through his hair. It's hot in this small room, and the collar of his robe is starting to itch, and he wonders if he's going to lose his mind. "All right, have we satisfied etiquette yet?" he sighs. "Do I need to swear any oaths or give a tour of the whole palace, or can Lady Lavorre actually go and get settled?"

His question is calculated to get a rise out of his councillors, and he's sure that Beauregard is moments away from facepalming. But in Lady Lavorre's eyes he catches a gleam of something that might be surprise, and maybe even respect. "At this stage, a tour would probably be a waste of time," she replies with a half-smile. "I think I'd forget everything the moment we were finished."

A slender thread of tension leaves Caleb's shoulders. He leans in just a fraction closer. "I still get lost here myself sometimes," he admits. "Big palace."

"You need a map." She looks thoughtful. "Or maybe I could paint pathways on the floor, or something."

An image springs into Caleb's mind of Lady Lavorre, knelt in all her jewels and finery, her tongue sticking determinedly out of the corner of her mouth as she holds a paintbrush and draws a sloppy line in green paint across the ornate marble floor of the imperial palace. He has to stifle a laugh.

"I can show you to your apartments," pipes up Veth Brenatto. She stands and approaches the queen-to-be, offering her a bright smile. "I'm Lady Brenatto — you've probably already forgotten, we've thrown so many names at you — but you can just call me Veth."

A surge of affection warms Caleb's chest. He'll have to thank her later. She is the first person who has properly tried to make their guest welcome, and he can tell that Lady Lavorre is touched, because she smiles back and murmurs a little conspiratorially, "Only if you'll call me Jester. I _hate_ Genevieve."

"I think it's pretty," Veth assures her. "But if you prefer Jester, then Jester it is."

"I will leave you in Veth's capable hands," says Caleb, relieved to be able to put this meeting behind him as soon as possible. "If there is anything you need, my staff is at your disposal. Your luggage is already in your rooms, and there are servants waiting for you there to assist you with unpacking and getting settled."

"Thank you, your Highness."

He swallows, his mouth dry. "Caleb," he corrects her softly. 

It's not just Beauregard glaring at him this time — it's Essek, and Ophelia, and Oremid Hass, and probably half of the rest of them. He understands, he _does._ Inane and irritating as it may be, there is a reason why these protocols are in place, and normally he would insist upon proper titles and forms of address, just as his parents taught him to. But not today. He glances back at the half-orc bodyguard whose name he can't remember. Caleb has a whole room, an entire _palace,_ of people on his side, and Lady Lav— _Jester,_ he corrects himself, has only one.

Well, not anymore. Now she has two.

Jester is looking at him curiously. "Not Bren?" she murmurs. "I thought…"

Beauregard coughs. "We have to turn our attention to the question of that Tal'dorei trade contract, don't we, _your Highness?"_ she asks pointedly. "Lady Lavorre won't want to hang around for that, surely, she'll be bored to death."

He feels his jaw tense up. "Ja, you are probably right. I, um…" He nods to Jester and Veth. "I will see you later, I suppose, _meine Dame."_

_"My lady,"_ Veth translates for Jester in a whisper loud enough for everyone to hear.

Caleb blushes, but Jester merely curtseys and murmurs, "I'm sure our paths will cross eventually." It's a daring reply, skirting the line of rudeness, but he finds he isn't offended. In fact he's charmed, and maybe that should worry him — but it's too late to do anything about it. Jester glides out of the room, led by Veth and followed by her faithful guard, and a few moments later Caleb is left alone with his council.

As soon as the door shuts, Beauregard turns on him. "What the _fuck_ was that?" she hisses. "Call me _Caleb?"_

He meets her gaze evenly, ignoring the tension that has risen in the room all around them. "I am going to be married to her. Is she supposed to address me as _your Highness_ for the rest of her life?"

"I don't know, but can't you save that for your wedding night or something?" Beauregard throws her hands up in the air. "I mean, fuck, Caleb, she's basically a total stranger, you can't just spill all your secrets to her and expect — "

"Expect what?" He folds his arms over his chest. "I told her my _name,_ Beauregard, not my life story. Besides, she will learn everything eventually. Everyone in this room knows the truth. Why shouldn't my queen?"

He glances around the table and notes, with a sense of grim satisfaction, that he has managed to fluster his entire council. Oremid Hass is shaking his head, Ophelia Mardun has an exasperated hand over her brow, and even Yeza looks a little uneasy. Essek Thelyss is _smirking._ The only person who looks truly comfortable is Caduceus, which is to be expected, he supposes.

"You can't think of her like that," Beauregard insists. "You can't let your guard down yet, you have to be careful. All of this bullshit, these titles and traditions and protocol, it's all — "

"It's a shield, I _know_ that." Caleb lowers his voice, wishing they were the only two people in the room. "Has it occurred to you that she must be feeling very alone right now?"

Her shoulders slump, and the stubborn expression on her face softens infinitesimally. "Look, I'm sorry, that sucks for her, I get it. But I'm more concerned for you, Caleb. I have to be. That's my job."

"I know." Caleb lets out a long breath. "But I am about to be her husband, Beauregard, so that means that it is _my_ job to be concerned for _her."_

"Fine," his friend grumbles. "Be all...noble, or whatever. But at least let her keep believing the big story, okay?"

"I am not going to lie to her, Beauregard."

"I'm not _saying_ lie to her. Just...be the great King Ermendrud, hero of the Empire. You can do that, right?"

_That's a lie in and of itself, and you know it,_ he wants to say. Instead he unclasps his heavy ceremonial cloak and takes his seat at the head of the table. "Let's just...deal with the rest of today. That trade contract is not going to negotiate itself."

There's a lull as everyone gets settled, some of them opening leather portfolios or record books, others sharpening quills and opening inkwells. Caleb wonders whether Jester has found her apartments by now.

"I thought she was really nice," remarks Caduceus into the silence.

_to be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

Jester doesn't see Caleb again for a while. It's not until her third night in the palace that she hears a quiet knock at the door to her modest apartments. 

She freezes. She's been seated at her small writing desk for hours, writing in her journal to the Traveler, logging the past few days: the hours of boredom, the new names and faces, the small moments of enjoyment here and there, like when Veth gave her a tour of the palace, or earlier this morning when she got to have breakfast with Fjord. Keeping a diary isn't illegal, and it would be easy to pretend that's all she's doing — but worshiping an unapproved god in the Empire _is_ against the law, and she can't risk jeopardizing this marriage before it even occurs. 

So she closes the book and slips it into the hiding place she found for it on her first night here, a small cavity underneath a loose drawer in the desk, before standing up and going to open the door just a crack.

"Yes?" she asks in the most regal voice she can muster — and then she sees who it is.

The king of the Dwendalian Empire is standing there, a faint blush high in his cheeks. "Hello," he murmurs. "Would...are you busy?"

Jester _stares._ Far too late, she realizes that she's wearing her simplest dress, hardly fit to be seen by a king, and on top of that she's barefoot. It's well past dusk, she hadn't assumed she would be seeing anyone else today, except for a servant or two, perhaps. The king almost seems surprised _himself,_ which is, of course, ridiculous.

She blinks, mentally groping for a reply. "...Hi," she manages at last.

They're staring at each other now. Jester is reminded of the moment they met.

"...I'm not busy," she adds, wondering a little desperately: what the fuck are you _supposed_ to say when a king appears outside your bedroom door?

_You say you're busy,_ whispers an amused, verdant voice in the back of her head. She can almost hear her god laughing at her, the sound rippling fondly through the secret bond they share.

The king — _Caleb,_ Jester reminds herself — clears his throat. "I thought...maybe we could go for a walk. Or something." His blush deepens. "I just mean — It would be nice to have a conversation without a roomful of politicians eavesdropping on us, ja?"

A tiny suspicion tugs at her mind. _He's going to try to get you alone in a dark corner and have his wicked way with you,_ she thinks, considering him for a long moment..but he's standing there so awkwardly, red-faced, shifting his weight like he doesn't quite know what to do with his body. Not exactly the picture of a man who could do a wicked _anything_ to someone. And why lure her into a corner when he could just push her into her bedroom if he wanted to?

_Besides,_ whispers the Traveler's voice, _if he gets handsy, you can more than hold your own, my dear...especially with my help._

Jester bites her lip. Damn it, she can't help it: she's _curious_ about him, this Bren Ermendrud with his mysterious past and his mysterious name and his mysterious... _un-kingliness._

"I need to put on some shoes," she finally replies with as much dignity as she can manage.

She shuts the door in his face, and Caleb has the leisure to wonder for a moment if he's making a terrible mistake. He feels terribly out of place here, in more ways than one. At least he's _physically_ more comfortable tonight than he was the first time he and Jester spoke. None of those awful formal robes: instead he's wearing a simple shirt and trousers, warm enough for a Rexxentrum winter, so long as they stay inside. He finds himself hoping that Jester packed for the cold when she left the Menagerie Coast, or at least that she has been provided with warm clothes since her arrival here. She brought very little with her in the way of wardrobe or possessions, he recalls the servants mentioning: just a few trunks, all able to fit on one cart. Rather un-princess-like, they'd remarked — but then again, one would prefer a frugal queen over one who drained the royal treasury in order to flaunt her extravagance, would one not?

He'll ask Veth about it tomorrow, Caleb thinks. His best friend has appointed herself Jester's unofficial guide and guardian, and Caleb isn't quite sure how he'll manage to thank her. It lifts some of the weight off of his shoulders, knowing that someone is taking care of Jester's needs, keeping an eye out for her when he can't. 

The door opens a minute later, and Jester steps out, now with a pair of slippers on her feet. She closes the door behind her with a quiet _click._

"Do you go on secret strolls with all the young ladies who visit your palace, your Highness?" she asks.

There's the faintest gleam in her eye that Caleb hopes means she's teasing. "I...if you would rather not…" He rubs the back of his neck. "I just thought it might be worth getting to know each other a little better. Out—outside of your room, that is. Talking."

"No, that's...that's a good idea," Jester replies slowly, and she smooths out the skirt of her gown and then glances expectantly up at him. He realizes that she's waiting for him to lead the way.

"Shall we?" he murmurs, extending a hand at the empty hallway, and they begin to walk.

At this time of evening, the residential wing of the palace is quiet. Caleb picks a direction somewhat at random — it doesn't matter where they're going, really — and tries to find the words to express how he's feeling.

"This whole thing is...is strange, isn't it?" he murmurs. Absently he scratches at his arm through the fabric of his sleeve. "It is hard to know how to behave. For me, anyway."

"You've never been in an arranged marriage before?"

He nearly laughs. This time he is sure she's teasing, and his heart lightens a fraction. "No, shockingly. But...I meant all of it, not just you. I am not, ah...not used to this. It has been a long time since I was royalty — I have only been back here in Rexxentrum for a few months, and before that...well, you have heard the basics, I imagine."

Jester nods. The truth is, she's finding it hard to reconcile the shy, blundering man at her side with the image of Bren Ermendrud. 

She knows the story, of course. Everyone does. It's all anyone seems to talk about: how the good old king Leofric and his beloved queen died seventeen years ago in that tragic fire, a terrible accident; how their only son and heir, the prince, lost his mind from grief and had to be sent away to be cured in the countryside; how his bereaved uncle reluctantly accepted the burden of kingship — and how it all turned out to be a lie. 

Bren had returned, seemingly out of nowhere, with a veritable army behind him and fire in his hands. He'd brought something else with him too: the truth, that his uncle had murdered his parents and stolen their throne. 

She glances at him. If the story is true, she's strolling casually beside one of the most powerful mages on the continent, the hero of the Empire, the man who defeated the great and terrible King Ikithon. And yet…

"Is your name Bren or Caleb?" she asks suddenly.

He seems unperturbed by the question — in fact, the corners of his mouth twitch, like he's suppressing a smile. "I was born Bren Aldric Ermendrud," he replies quietly, "but after I escaped from...the place my uncle sent me, I used a lot of names. I had to, just to survive living on the run. Caleb Widogast was what I was calling myself when I met the people who...who saved me. Helped me find myself again."

He is silent for a few moments. Memories are tugging at him from all directions, ghosts from the past grabbing at him with many hands, and it takes some effort not to let them pull him away.

"Caleb is the name that feels most like me," he finally says. "You are welcome to call me whatever you like, of course, but…"

"Caleb is fine," Jester murmurs, her cheeks going warm. She keeps her eyes locked on the beautiful, intricate tile under their feet as they walk, feeling a little off-balance, thrown by how openly Caleb is disclosing his story to her, like she has a right to these intimate details of his life. 

She's not a fool. She knows, more than most people perhaps, how a man can present one side of himself to the world while hiding a completely different personality underneath. Just because this particular king is being kind, that doesn't mean these are his true colors. 

She wishes she knew what they were. Even if it turns out that he's secretly a terrible person...well, at least she could _plan_ around that. She knows how to deal with pompous lords and overbearing aristocrats. But Mama never prepared her for someone like King Ermen— like Caleb.

Somewhat begrudgingly she murmurs, "You can call me Jester. If you want."

"Jester is a nice name." They round a corner, and Caleb clasps his hands behind his back. If he stares straight ahead and pretends he's just talking to Beauregard or Veth, it doesn't feel so terribly uncomfortable. He clears his throat. "Are your apartments all right? You have everything you need?"

"I do, thank you."

"And your attendants, they are all to your liking? The servants and guards?"

"I — yes, they're — " Jester stammers, feeling a blush rising in her cheeks. "Everyone's very nice, thank you, it's really — "

She should stop talking, honestly she should, before she says something stupid like —

"You know I've already agreed to marry you, right?"

Caleb slows to a stop and stands there for a moment, just looking at her.

Jester swallows hard. "So, just. You know. You don't have to…" Keep up the act? Win her over with his best behavior? "...worry, or whatever," she finishes lamely.

He's quiet for a moment, and then he replies, "I think that is what makes it my job to worry. But I will try not to bother you with it, if you would prefer."

They resume walking. Jester fiddles nervously with her sleeve, wishing she could come up with some interesting conversation. Beside her, Caleb is wishing the same thing.

"You will have bigger apartments, you know," he finally murmurs, "after the, um…" _Scheisse, it is just a word, it cannot_ bite _you, just say it._ "...the wedding." Caleb coughs. "Rooms of your own, next to mine. Probably nicer than mine, actually — my uncle's idea of comfort was pretty economical, so I have a lot of renovations to do."

"You sleep in his room?" asks Jester in a tone of surprise, and Caleb smiles a little ruefully.

"It is the king's room, unfortunately, even if that king was a tyrant."

There's a pause, and then Jester murmurs, "It's not that it bothers me when you worry about me. It's just...You're not at all what I expected."

He glances at her. "I thought you would be used to that. To the difference between...the face for the public, and the face behind closed doors. Does no one wear masks in the court of Nicodranas?"

"They do, but the face underneath is usually a dick," she replies bluntly.

Caleb laughs. "I suppose I am glad I do not have a secret dick-face, then."

He sees Jester grin a little. "You always have to watch out for that, it's true."

That was very nearly a laugh, Caleb thinks — he just almost made her laugh. That's a good sign, right? At least she must be feeling more comfortable around him. He allows himself to relax just a bit, as they turn a corner and continue down the softly-lit hallway.

"So what are you like, then?" asks Jester. "The face behind closed doors."

Caleb ventures a small smile. "A worrier, apparently."

Jester does laugh then, quiet and warm. "Is that it? You worry and you're not a dick, those are your two main traits?"

"I don't know. Um...I like to read. I have a cat, Frumpkin, you will meet him at some point. I am not particularly comfortable around strangers. That probably sums me up, if you were to ask my friends."

"I'm not asking your friends, I'm asking _you."_

His smile widens a bit. "Well, my friends are usually good judges of character."

_They saw the good in me before I ever saw it myself,_ Caleb almost adds, but — _caution, Bren,_ whispers a secret voice in his head, and he bites it back. He barely knows this woman. He cannot afford to be entirely unguarded around her, not about everything. Not yet.

"So what about you?" he asks softly instead. "I know that you are an accomplished artist, your ambassador mentioned that several times while we were still in the negotiations phase; and I know that you have a good sense of humor, I have learned that directly from you. But that is about it. I want to know more." There are other compliments he could pay her, as a matter of fact, if he thought that she would enjoy hearing them — but somehow he doubts that she would. Not from him, at any rate.

Jester chews on her lip and battles with herself for a moment. It may be better if he knows as little about her as possible before they're married, but he's been so forthcoming with her tonight, and she doesn't want him to think she's _cold._ Besides, as much as part of her would have preferred to hate him, she has to admit that she appreciates what he's trying to do. 

"I don't know." She shrugs. "I'm loud? Fjord has described me as _chaotic,_ but I have no _idea_ what he means."

"Loud and chaotic," smiles Caleb. _Well, opposites attract._ "I think that will do nicely. Could use a bit of chaos around here," he adds under his breath, glancing around them at the austere halls, empty except for the occasional perfectly-aligned painting, sculpture, or accent table. Even the houseplants are neatly and symmetrically trimmed. He remembers, in the distant fog of his childhood, the urge to scuff up a carpet now and then, just for a change, or to leave a scratch on a wall, or knock an armful of books off one of the shelves in the —

— library.

Caleb stops dead in his tracks. All this time he's been focused on his conversation with Jester, not paying attention to where his feet were taking him, and now he's face to face with the set of great dark double doors that he has been purposefully avoiding for weeks, for _months._ His heart thuds and he runs a nervous hand through his hair, cursing himself for not realizing sooner just exactly where he was leading them.

_She distracted you,_ whispers that old voice in his head. _Be aware of that. Learn how to counter it, how to take advantage._

"This is — well, was — " He swallows his discomfort and turns to Jester, motioning at the locked doors like he's some sort of royal tour guide or something. "Used to be the library. It is a little bit of a mess right now, but when the...repairs are finished, you are welcome to share it, if you'd like a place to read, or paint, or anything you like, really." 

Jester cocks an eyebrow. "How did it _used_ to be a library?" 

Caleb feels his face flush under her gaze. "It is not really a library if no one is using it," he mumbles, wishing he'd taken better care choosing his words.

"Why does it need repairs? What happened?" Jester crouches down like she's about to peek through the keyhole. "Was there some kind of horrible cataloging accident, or — "

"It's getting late," interrupts Caleb, turning away. He's got his hands resting on his upper arms, almost like he's warding off a chill. "I should walk you back to your room."

_There it is,_ thinks Jester, a delicious curl of satisfaction twisting in her belly. She's been wondering when she would find the catch. It feels much more comfortable to have Caleb on the back foot, irritated by her questions and wanting to get away, than to be confused and flustered herself. 

She straightens up, privately filing away this information for later. She never has been able to resist a good mystery. "Forgive me," she says primly. "You're right, it's late. I've taken up too much of your time."

"No, not at all," replies Caleb hastily, nearly offering her his arm before he decides against it. She's no swooning damsel, she's perfectly capable of walking down a hallway herself. Desperate to change the subject as they start heading back the way they came, he blurts out, "Would you tell me about the Menagerie Coast? I have never been."

"Really, never?" Jester looks shocked. "I thought you went all over Wildemount on your adventures."

_"Nearly_ all of Wildemount. It is a big continent." He can't help but smile at her indignation.

"Oh, you should see Nicodranas," Jester exclaims, clasping her hands together. "It's so beautiful, Caleb, the sky is bright blue with these little cotton candy clouds, and the ocean — have you seen the ocean?"

"No, never." His heartbeat is finally beginning to return to normal as he lets the happiness in Jester's voice wash over him. "Is it wonderful?"

"The _best,"_ she sighs. "It goes on forever and ever, like you can just stare out and never find the end, you know? And at night, wherever you are, you can hear the waves like a lullaby — or if you can't hear it you can _smell_ it, all the salt and the seaweed, which kind of _sounds_ gross when I'm saying it but it's actually really nice? Like fresh air and brine, and sometimes you can smell the marketplace, too, with all the spices and — "

She cuts herself off suddenly, blushing. "Sorry. I'll stop now."

"No, please, it...sounds nice," murmurs Caleb, privately thinking that he could listen to her talk for hours. "I, um...I wish you had not come here during the winter. It is pretty beautiful, actually, in the springtime, even up here in the north. My parents' home — well, where we spent our summers when I grew up, in Blumenthal — the valley there is full of flowers, you should see it."

And now he is talking about his parents. And his childhood. Scheisse, so much for being guarded.

He barrels ahead before Jester can respond. "I can't imagine the cold weather is a nice change from the south," he remarks lightly.

Weather: that's about as safe a topic as you can get. Caleb keeps the conversation steered in this direction until they have reached Jester's bedroom door again.

Then he pauses. His cheeks are warm and he can't think of a way to say this without coming across as a moron or a creep or both, but...it needs to be said.

"I would like..." Caleb swallows and runs a hand through his hair again. "I would like to...talk to you more, like this. Maybe...a little every day, if you have the time and don't mind. Like I said, we should get to know each other a little better before we, um...take the plunge, so to speak."

Jester is staring at him.

"It does not have to be at night," he adds hastily, blushing a little deeper.

Bren Ermendrud — Caleb Widogast — _whoever_ this man is, he is the strangest man Jester has ever met, she decides then and there. He's _nothing_ like a king is supposed to be: he's quiet, uncertain, stumbling, disarming. Worse, he's _interesting._

Jester should never have agreed to this walk, but there's no going back now. "That, um...that would be fine with me. Are your advisors going to be annoyed?" She thinks back to a few days ago when Expositor Lionett was so obviously irritated by Caleb's display of informality.

Caleb manages a somewhat hollow smile. "I do not really care. I just..." He swallows again. "I do not want to marry a stranger," he admits softly.

There's a few moments of charged silence while Jester holds his gaze, and then finally she murmurs, "I don't either."

It feels a little like the world has tilted on its side. "Sometime tomorrow, then," says Caleb, stepping back and rubbing at his arm with one hand. "Good night, Jester."

"Thank you," she manages as she opens the door and slips back into her room. "I mean — see you tomorrow. I mean _good night."_

As quickly as is polite, she shuts the door behind her, and then stands there leaning back against it for a long moment. Her thoughts are in a whirl and her cheeks are hot. Finally she shakes herself out of it and returns to her writing desk. She has a _lot_ to tell the Traveler.

Caleb wanders back to his own chambers half in a daze, lost in thought, Jester Lavorre's accent echoing faintly through his mind, his own conversational fumbles standing out sharp and loud. When he gets to his bedroom he shuts the door, sits down heavily on the bed, and puts his head in his hands.

_Caleb Widogast, you are in trouble._

_to be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next week and a half or so, it becomes a routine. Caleb stops by every day, sometimes knocking on Jester's door, sometimes meeting her wherever she's already exploring the palace or talking with one of her new staff members or just enjoying a meal. They walk together for a little while — ten minutes or half an hour or somewhere in between — and Caleb tries, as gently as he can, to learn more about this woman who's going to help him rule a kingdom. He asks about her favorite pastimes, about her mother, about growing up on the Coast. And as much as he can, as much as he feels is  _ safe, _ he answers her questions about him: tells her about his adventures with the motley second family he's built over the past couple of years, about his magic, his arcane interests, what he likes to study. She meets Frumpkin, who reluctantly succumbs to her enthusiastic cuddles, all the while giving Caleb a look that plainly reads  _ You've made a terrible mistake. _

For her part, Jester finds herself actually looking forward to the breaks in her day when Caleb joins her. It's still disconcerting — she'd come to Rexxentrum  _ so prepared  _ to hate him, to ignore him whenever possible, to do her duty and nothing more; but Caleb is so...unexpected. He's awkward, yet somehow charming at the same time. He's funny without realizing it. He seems so uncomfortable and reserved at times, yet somehow he commands the respect and loyalty and even  _ affection  _ of everyone in the palace. He's a mess of contradictions; how could Jester not be fascinated?

"Everybody talks about him like he's this big amazing hero," Jester tells Fjord one afternoon, three days before the wedding (which she is  _ not  _ thinking about, absolutely not, thank you very much), "but he really doesn't  _ act  _ like it, you know?"

Fjord raises his eyebrows. He's sprawled lazily on one of the couches in the queen's parlor. Technically this is supposed to be a sitting room for Jester to entertain guests and close friends, and  _ technically  _ Fjord is supposed to stand outside the door when he's on guard duty — but it's not like Jester  _ has  _ any guests coming to see her, or even any real friends here except for Fjord and maybe Veth. (And maybe Caleb...but no, that's stretching things, that's ridiculous.)

So until these things change, Fjord has royal, or very-nearly-royal, permission to commandeer whatever couch he fancies. He's chosen to take advantage of this today by lying half on his back, half on his side, with his feet resting on one of the armrests — he actually has to crane his neck in order to stare at Jester.

"You don't think he's a hero?"

Jester leans forward and smacks him. "I said he doesn't  _ act  _ like a hero, Fjord, that's not the same thing. He's, like, all...humble, and stuff. Like  _ actually  _ humble and not fake-humble, like — do you remember Baron Hunsford who used to come to see Mama all the time, and he would always end every sentence like,  _ not that I care about rank, of course, my dear Lady Lavorre, I am only a simple country lord  _ — "

"So you do believe what they say about him," interrupts Fjord, with the faintest scowl on his face, like it's costing him effort not to look too skeptical. "The king. His whole...prince in disguise, returning to reclaim the throne, fairytale storybook...story."

"Oh, I mean — I don't know," she confesses, a little taken aback. "I don't have any reason  _ not  _ to believe it, you know? Everybody says Ikithon was a terrible king, and you know the kind of stuff they say he was doing before he died — "

"Those are just rumors."

Now it's Jester's turn to scowl. "Seriously? You don't believe in the scourgers?"

"Mysterious shadow assassins working for the crown?" Fjord holds his hands up. "I'm sure they  _ exist,  _ or existed anyway, but all the...dark magic and terrible scars and torture, I think that's just to scare people. The king himself seems like a decent man, even if some of his story is exaggerated — and it  _ has  _ to be, Jester, you and I both know how this stuff works. But there's nothing wrong with that. You seem to like him just fine," he adds, watching Jester's expression carefully.

Her cheeks go warm. "He's nice. He doesn't care that I'm...weird, or whatever."

"Jester…" Fjord finally sits up, his countenance serious as he leans forward with his elbows on his knees to face her. "You can like him, all right? But don't...trust him. There's plenty of things he  _ would  _ care about if he knew."

"I know that," Jester mumbles. "I'm  _ careful,  _ Fjord. He only gets the good stuff, and that's all."

Fjord's eyebrows shoot up again. "He  _ gets  _ the  _ good stuff?" _

_ "Shut up,"  _ Jester growls, and she throws an embroidered cushion at him, and that ends  _ that  _ discussion.

*

Preparations for the wedding have been in full swing for a while now, of course, but it's these last few days when it really kicks into high gear as the palace is overrun by decorators, caterers, extra security — and  _ guests,  _ so many guests coming into the city from all over the Empire, people who apparently have to be invited and then have to stay in the palace itself because they're too important for inns and too rich or too powerful to offend — and then all of the gottverdammt  _ musicians... _

Caleb can't help the exasperation that's been coursing through him all week. It's not the  _ fact  _ of the wedding that bothers him — well, it  _ is,  _ but he's made his peace with that. This marriage is the price for stability in the Empire, both in terms of foreign policy and — as much as he tries to put it out of his mind — to secure an heir for the throne.

But the mess of it all, the fuss, the elaborate planning, the  _ distraction _ when there are so many other important things that he and the rest of the court should be focusing on — it grates on him. He wonders if everyone else has forgotten that they have just come through a war with Xhorhas  _ and  _ a rebellion against the Dwendalian throne. The kingdom is still mending, and it has a long way to go. Caleb spends his days worrying about the depletion of the treasury, about his people's harvests lasting through the winter, about tracking down remaining threats to the crown, about keeping this diplomat satisfied and that minister happy…

And then someone comes in and asks him whether he would prefer to have  _ Gloria Dwendaliae  _ or  _ Hymne des Feuers  _ sung at the wedding, and Caleb wants to scream.

He's exhausted. His daily walks with Jester have become a sanctuary of sorts, and for that reason alone he has grown increasingly grateful for her company, her willingness to tolerate his poor attempts at conversation, her cheerfulness, her lilting voice.

But there are other reasons, too. Reasons that have started keeping him awake at night.

*

Two days before the wedding, Caleb knocks quietly on Jester's door. 

Jester answers, a smile already tugging at her lips. She recognizes his knock by now, so hesitant, like he's always afraid he's disturbing her. 

"Hi," she murmurs. For reasons that she would rather not acknowledge right now, she finds herself pleased that she wore something pretty today. It's one of her new dresses — part of her "wedding gift from the Crown," although she's pretty sure this was just a polite way of saying "you need nicer clothes if you're going to be queen" — and it fits her perfectly, the deep purple brocade clinging softly to her form and then spilling out into long, dramatic sleeves.

It's more satisfying than she'd like to admit when she sees Caleb's lips part and he blinks wordlessly at her for a moment before apparently regaining his train of thought. "Um. Morning. Do you have a moment?"

"Of course!" she chirps back, stepping out into the hall to join him.

"Actually — " Caleb swallows. "I was wondering if we could talk inside today."

Jester's eyes go wide.  _ Oh god.  _ She thinks of the mess inside — her clothes scattered haphazardly on the floor, her journal open on the desk full of pages and pages written to an  _ illegal god,  _ the Traveler's silver holy symbol next to it serving as a paperweight —

_ "Justasecond,"  _ she blurts out, slipping back into the bedroom and shutting the door in Caleb's face.

_...Okay, _ he thinks numbly,  _ that...could have gone worse. _

Jester snatches her journal up and shoves it quickly into its hiding place in the desk, followed by the holy symbol, and then kicks all her dirty clothes under the bed. Just for good measure, she stops at the mirror and takes a moment to smooth her hair and straighten the neckline of her dress. Just...because.

She gives one final scan of the room for anything out of place and then finally opens the door again, offering Caleb a slightly embarrassed smile. "Come on in."

"Danke," Caleb murmurs.

Jester takes a seat on her bed while Caleb walks in and pauses before her brightly-colored desk chair.

"Was this always pink?" he asks, pointing at it and biting back a smile.

"Always," she replies gravely.

His mouth twitches. "With glitter?"

"You seem surprised, your Highness."

Caleb sits down, facing her, and nods. "I shouldn't be, by now, should I."

Jester grins. She didn't bring much from Nicodranas, but her paints are her treasure, and Caleb has already heard her opinions on certain  _ improvements  _ she would make in the palace. 

"Jester…" Caleb leans forward a little, rests his elbows on his knees, and tries not to stare at her. She's stunning in her plum-and-lavender dress, her hair curled prettily around her ears and horns, her blue skin as rich as the clear winter sky. He wonders if Jester has noticed that he dressed a little more nicely than usual today, in a dark red jerkin tailored to fit his frame perfectly, one that he typically reserves for dinners with foreign dignitaries or other people he needs to impress. Then he wonders if this makes him look pathetic.

"Hmm?"

He drops his gaze to the floor. "I wanted...there was something I wanted to talk to you about."

"The portrait of St. Mercer was like that when I  _ got  _ here, Caleb, he's always had a mustache."

Caleb laughs despite himself. "No. Um...that was not…"

"Go ahead, I'm listening."

He folds his hands. "Jester…"

Jester lets her gaze settle on his rich, scarlet jerkin, so that she doesn't have to stare at his face. It's for his sake, she tells herself as her eyes trace along the broad lines of his shoulders, his lean arms and slim waist; she knows extended eye contact makes Caleb nervous, that's all.

_ (He should wear this jacket more often, _ is another thing she thinks.)

"Jester," Caleb repeats for the third time, like he's some sort of gottverdammt parrot. His face is already uncomfortably hot; thank goodness Jester is not looking directly at him. "We both know that this is not a love match. We are doing this...for the good of both of our nations, we are doing it out of duty. Both of us." He pauses to draw a quick, nervous breath. "And there is nothing wrong with that."

He sits up a little straighter and his hand moves to start fumbling in his pocket.

"But it seems...I don't know, it seems...foolish, to get married just because other people told us to." The corner of his mouth quirks up into what might almost be a smile. "We were not exactly asked, you know. At least, I wasn't. I was...politely informed, you could say."

Jester's heart thuds as she thinks back to that day under the Nicodranas sun, when her mama had told her with a tear sparkling in her eye,  _ It's either him or Lord Sharpe, my little sapphire. I am so sorry, but...there is nowhere else to turn.  _

"Yeah," she murmurs, shaking the memory from her head. "I know what you mean."

Caleb pulls a small wooden box out of his pocket and starts fiddling with it, staring down and turning it over and over in his hands. "I wanted to ask..." He pauses, like he's catching himself, and then starts over, still not looking at Jester. "I wanted to...give you that choice. To ask if...if you would marry me."

Silence.

The faint blush in his cheeks deepens a little, and he holds up the box slightly with one hand, gazing at his feet like they're the most interesting thing in the universe. "There is a ring in it for you if you say yes," he mutters.

Jester can't breathe. This is  _ absurd.  _ As if they have any choice in the matter, as if she could possibly say  _ no,  _ as if the king of the Empire should have to ask for  _ anything — _

But here is Caleb, the strangest, kindest man she's ever met, the king of the Empire...asking.

"...Okay," she whispers.

She waits a moment. He's still staring at the floor, and she realizes that...he might not have actually heard her.

"Caleb," Jester says a little louder.

Now he looks up at her, and his pale blue eyes are piercing.

"I'm...I'm saying yes." Jester tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear with trembling fingers, feeling silly, feeling  _ stupid,  _ because — they're already  _ engaged,  _ nothing has  _ changed,  _ everything is exactly the same as it was ten minutes ago, no matter what pretty words Caleb may have rehearsed about  _ choices  _ and  _ asking.  _ "Yes, I'll marry you."

Caleb lets out a deep breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. "You do not just have to say that," he tells her quietly. "You can say no, and I will have them call it all off."

In the back of his mind he wonders who would be the first to kill him. Beauregard, probably, although he can't discount Ophelia Mardun with her network of agents, or Oremid Hass with his literal legions of soldiers...or Essek with his dunamancy...or maybe Caduceus has a dark side he doesn't know about...

"I believe you," murmurs Jester, and she finds to her surprise that she's telling the truth. She does actually believe that she could reject this, all of it — Caleb, the Empire, this ring he's offering her — and he would simply...cancel the ceremony. Deal with the fallout, the diplomatic offense, his council's indignation, the wasted gold. And then just...find himself another wife.

Maybe that's what he wants, she thinks suddenly, her heart turning in her throat. Fjord's words seem to echo in her memory:  _ You can like him, all right? But don't...trust him.  _ She has been waiting this whole time for the other shoe to drop, for the moment when Caleb's kindness turns out to be nothing but an act. For a while she was even looking forward to it, and now she feels a little flush of shame at the way she'd craved a target for her mute, helpless anger.

But lately it's been harder to keep that anger stoked. And now, if Caleb is offering her this chance because  _ he's  _ having second thoughts...she can't deny the hurt that sparks in her chest at the idea. She wants him to like her. She wants to have earned his trust. 

"I believe you," she repeats, softer this time. "And I'm — I'm still saying yes. Unless  _ you  _ want to change your mind."

Caleb gives her a long look, and then he opens the box.

The ring inside, nestled into a velvet pillow, takes Jester's breath away. The center stone looks like a diamond until it catches the light and sparkles pink, gold, copper, red — a magestone, she realizes, the emblem of the Dwendalian Empire. Cradling it on either side, arrayed like two halves of a sunburst, are fiery citrines and cool sapphires.  _ Ermendrud and Lavorre,  _ thinks Jester, staring at it entirely bereft of words and wondering, inanely, if she's allowed to touch it.

Caleb clears his throat. "I hope it fits," he murmurs. "They had to guess your size."

"Can I…?" she breathes, lifting her dazed eyes to Caleb's face.

He hands her the box. "It's yours," he replies simply, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.

_ There are some perks to marrying a king,  _ she thinks as she slips the ring onto her fourth finger and holds it up into the early morning light pouring in through her window. She doesn't think she's ever worn anything this expensive or beautiful, even when she was a child and used to steal her mother's jewelry to try on.

"Caleb, it's so beautiful," she murmurs. "It's — it is just a  _ little  _ too big…"

"May I?" He holds out his hand.

Jester moves to take the ring off and hand it to him, but Caleb shakes his head and says, "Leave it on," so she places her hand in his instead.

He takes it carefully. It's the first time he has ever touched her, and he is...he is glad that he has a spell to focus on casting in this moment. With the fingers of his free hand he lightly touches the ring and murmurs an arcane couplet; and then, under his concentration, the ring shrinks ever so slightly, the metal contracting in a heatless, silent shift. 

"There you go." He drops Jester's hand, returning both of his palms to rest on his knees where they will stay steady.

Jester tilts her hand this way and that, twists the ring a few times to test it, and he's right: it's a perfect fit now. "Thank you," she says in surprise, wondering in the back of her mind whether the Traveler could teach her a trick like that.

_ Maybe Caleb could teach you,  _ smiles the teasing, verdant voice in her ear.

She mentally sticks out her tongue at her god.  _ Don't be ridiculous. _

_ You have the king of the Dwendalian Empire sitting on your painted pink chair, and  _ I  _ am the one being ridiculous? _

"You're welcome." Caleb sits back a little. His eyes keep getting drawn to the gemstones glittering on Jester's finger, the citrines and sapphires showing up brilliantly against her blue skin, just like he knew they would. "Are you nervous? For the big day?"

"A little?" Jester shrugs. "I mean, it's just, you know,  _ I promise blah blah blah, you promise blah blah blah, okay congratulations you're married!  _ It's not a big deal." It's a  _ very  _ big deal. "Are  _ you  _ nervous?"

Caleb smiles, feeling relaxed for the first time since he knocked on her door. "Oh, I am terrified," he replies easily. "Standing up in front of large crowds, having to speak, everyone watching...it is not my forte."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a really strange choice for a king?" Jester raises her eyebrows, playing with her ring as she watches him, spinning it on her finger. "I hope that's not treasonous, but it's  _ true.  _ You hate crowds, and public speaking, and  _ people." _

"Ja, well…" Caleb feels his smile turn a little bit stiff. "I was not consulted on the matter. Just born. I…"

He pauses. Glances at Jester's ring again, secure on her finger.

"I hate being king," he murmurs, barely above a whisper. "I am not good at it. But it was me or my uncle, and...when my uncle is in charge, people suffer."

"You’re not bad at being king."

Caleb lets out a wry chuckle. "You have never actually seen me kinging," he points out. "We have been going on walks together, not attending council meetings."

"Well." He sees the stubborn set of her jaw, and it fills him with warmth. "Maybe not, but I know what people think of you. Everyone says you're a good man and you saved a lot of people."

"I had a lot of help," he hedges. "And those things do not necessarily translate to being a good ruler."

"Well they don't  _ hurt,  _ do they?"

"I suppose not — "

"Besides, you might not be a  _ typical  _ king, but there's nothing wrong with that. Most kings are assholes. It's  _ good  _ that you're different."

Caleb's smile widens a fraction. "Most kings are assholes?"

"I mean, probably not, like, your dad — I mean  _ definitely  _ not your dad, I'm sure he was great — "

"No, keep going, tell me more."

Jester rolls her eyes, standing up and making a shooing motion toward him. "That’s it, daily meeting over. You’ve hit your annoying limit."

Caleb remains sitting exactly where he is, and his smile has become a smirk as he stares up at Jester. "You will be a  _ wonderful _ queen," he remarks. "That is pretty much all it takes."

The words hit her in a weird place, nearly knocking the air from her lungs. If Caleb is an odd choice for a king, Jester has to acknowledge that she’s a  _ terrible _ choice for a queen. But her mama and her home are only a few days away from being taken care of for a very long time, so she isn’t going to advertise her lack of qualifications. 

"All it takes is being bossy?" she smirks back. "Easy, I’ve had that down basically  _ forever." _

Now Caleb does stand up, still smiling but unwilling to intrude on Jester's space for more than just a teasing minute when she's just made the choice to treat him like an equal and ask — no,  _ tell _ him to leave. It is not the first time he has been impressed by her...bravery? Guts? Both words seem too strong for what should be a very minor, simple act of Jester asserting herself, but...well, he is a  _ king. _ The last king in Rexxentrum might happily have sent you to the scourgers for comments like Jester's. He wonders whether her boldness comes from ignorance or familiarity. Or maybe, he thinks, warmth curling in his chest, she just has a bold heart.

"I will get going," he tells her, making no effort to hide the fondness in his voice. "Since my queen commands." He heads out the door — and then turns and allows himself one more glance at his ring on Jester's finger before he leaves.

Jester watches him go, quietly closes the door behind him and then just...collapses on the edge of her bed to stare at her hand. The ring sparkles there, gold and blue and flame, as if it's loudly proclaiming:  _ I said yes. _

She swallows hard. In this moment, she realizes, she can no longer blame anyone else: not Caleb, not his advisors, not her mother, not even Lord Sharpe. By saying yes, she has  _ chosen  _ this life, and the only person she can blame now is herself.

Caleb's voice echoes in her mind, warm and soft.  _ Since my queen commands.  _ She thinks of his awkwardness, of that nice red jacket; thinks of the way he'd left her room when she told him to.  _ I wanted to give you that choice. To ask if...if you would marry me. _

She does  _ not  _ think of the expression on his face as he'd turned one last time to look at her. And to help her  _ not  _ think of it, she jumps up and grabs her journal out of its hiding place, and for the next half hour she tells the Traveler  _ everything,  _ sketches her ring from different angles, then casts her Sending spell to give her mama the news. She doesn't mention the proposal, just that she finally got her ring today, that it fits perfectly, that the wedding preparations are going well, that she'll be married soon, that all of their troubles will be over, that she's...happy. She's happy.

Caleb spends the rest of the day giving only half of his attention to council meetings, reports, questions, documents that need signing, measures that need approval. The other half of his mind is carefully sorting through the past two weeks, cataloging and organizing and analyzing and saving for later. He flips through moments and memories like they're pages in his spellbook. Recalls the coldness that Jester still shows him at times, and the way he can read her reluctance and resentment in her eyes as though she's speaking it out loud. Thinks of how Veth has mentioned more than once that Jester still seems uncomfortable here, that she is clearly homesick, that she has yet to adjust to her new surroundings.

_ But she said yes. _ The thought keeps circling back.  _ She chose you. _

He wonders dimly what her alternatives were, and how bad they must have been, for her to have taken that ring.

_ to be continued _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! Apologies for letting this go so long without an update -- real life got in the way, including some health issues, but now we're back! Please enjoy!

The next day, as Beau is walking Jester through the plan for the ceremony tomorrow, she mentions off-hand, "You know, I think Caleb really likes you."

It’s only because Jester is actively working on not making a total fool of herself that she doesn’t gape at the woman. She stares at Beau for a long, awkward moment as she tries to come up with...something.

"He doesn’t know me," she finally murmurs, feeling stupid. But it’s  _ true. _ Two weeks of getting to know each other is hardly any time. "Not  _ really. _ I mean, it’s been two weeks."

Beau shrugs. "No, sure, but he  _ likes _ you. He thinks you're cool. I just mean I think you guys could really be friends, you know?"

Jester’s tail flicks nervously behind her and she’s not sure what she’s expected to say. She doesn’t hate Caleb, not  _ really, _ hasn’t since that first walk together. He’s — nice, in his odd way, but he’s still a king of a nation that would probably kill or at least imprison her if they knew the real Jester. "I think we are friends," she finally murmurs. "He’s — he’s not like I expected him to be."

She gives Beau a worried look, hoping that she’s not veering too close towards treason or disrespect. 

"Nah, he's usually not like most people expect him to be." Beau gives Jester a slightly guilty glance. "I, um. I like you too. Sorry if I was, like, a bitch or whatever when we first met. It'd be cool if we could be friends too."

What is wrong with the people in this empire? Why do  _ none _ of them act like they’re supposed to, so that she can just dislike them on principle? They’ve all made this incredibly difficult, Jester decides. 

...Still, she has to admit that she wouldn’t mind another friend. Aside from walks with Caleb and the occasional conversation with Veth or Fjord, it’s mostly just been Jester and her staff of servants who are all too shy or uncomfortable to really talk to her. She craves company, and Beau seems...nice. Awkward, a little abrasive, but nice. Plus, she knows that Caleb respects Beau a great deal, which...when did his opinion start to matter, exactly? She’s surprised to find that it does. 

"I’d like that," she replies with a hesitant smile. "I didn’t think you were..." A pause. "Well, you were  _ kind _ of a bitch. But that’s okay." Her smile grows into a grin, which Beau returns. 

"Yeah, that's kind of my thing." Beau pats her on the shoulder — well, it’s meant to be a pat, she’s pretty sure, though it’s more like a heavy clap. She wonders if she’ll have a bruise tomorrow. "Just call me out on it next time. I’m a work in progress or whatever."

They continue through the great Golden Hall, past decorators and planners who have been working round the clock to get the huge chamber ready, and Beau points out where Jester will proceed down the aisle, where the choir and orchestra will be, which dignitaries will be seated where. 

"So after the big song, the doors will open, you’ll come down here in your big fancy dress, blah blah blah…" She leads Jester up some steps at the far end of the hall, until they’re standing on a raised platform overlooking the whole room. "Caleb will be up here with Caduceus — you’ve met Caduceus, right?"

Jester squints at Beau for a long moment, her tongue sticking out from between her lips thoughtfully. "...Is he the pink one or the super arrogant-looking hot guy?"

Beau laughs out loud. "The pink one,  _ god, _ can you imagine if  _ Essek _ was gonna marry you guys? Holy sh—I mean, holy cow, dude. Literally a holy cow, Cad's a cleric, so." She grins at her own pun.

Unable to contain herself, Jester leans forward, her eyes bright and curious. "Yeah? What  _ sort _ of cleric?" 

"Oh, just like...the healing kind?" Beau waves her hand vaguely. "He worships the Wildmother, which was technically illegal till Caleb became king, but it's all good now, no one cares. So he'll have you guys repeat your vows and stuff, it's just like the standard traditional wedding vows, nothing fancy — oh." She pauses, remembering. "Caleb did take out the word  _ love, _ just so you know."

Jester desperately wants to ask more about the Wildmother and how one would go about getting a foreign god added to an approved list,  _ just for curiosity’s sake, _ but Beau has moved on too quickly. 

"That’s...good," she manages after a moment. "I mean it’s...it’s not a love match, we both know that." She thinks back to Caleb’s proposal, to words like  _ duty  _ and  _ choice.  _

"Yeah, exactly," Beau nods. "I think he's probably trying to make sure you aren't swearing any vows you can't both keep. He can be... _ stupidly _ honorable about shit like that." Her eyes go a little wide. "Stuff. Stuff like that.  _ Shit _ this job is hard," she adds under her breath.

Jester snorts. "What, it’s not like Caleb is going to fire you for saying  _ shit.  _ Why does anyone care? You’re all so formal and  _ stuffy  _ in public, I don’t get it."

"Ugh." Beau makes a face. "It's all about  _ perception, _ you know? Like, it was fine when we were all just random losers traveling around together fighting monsters, but now we have to care about our  _ image. _ I mean, think about it: as far as most people know, Caleb's just this  _ guy _ who showed up after like twenty years like, hey, I'm gonna kill the king and be in charge now. And people are happy with that, because the old king was a dick, and they  _ like _ that narrative, you know? Long lost prince in disguise, secretly a hero, returns and reclaims his crown from his evil uncle?"

It  _ is  _ a good story, Jester agrees. It could almost come from the pages of one of her childhood storybooks. 

Beau scratches the back of her neck. "But you gotta keep the narrative good or you lose support. The Empire's not doing great. Recovering from a war is hard. There's a lot of pressure for Caleb — well, for all of us, to be honest — to look good and say the right things and do all the stuff a king and his counselors are supposed to be experts at."

"You guys do know you picked a tiefling to be the queen, right?" Jester would have to be blind not to notice how some people have looked at her, from lowly servants all the way up to certain members of the royal council. Even in Nicodranas she encountered prejudice now and then, whispers of  _ devil-spawn  _ and  _ half-breed.  _ "Aren’t you worried people will think I’m sullying the pure Ermendrud line or whatever?"

"Oh, we don’t give a shit what  _ racists  _ think." Beau cracks a smile. "You’re the best choice to be queen, diplomatically speaking, and even if you weren’t…" She shrugs. "Like I said, Caleb likes you."

Jester wonders what she’s supposed to do with that. She wonders how she’s supposed to use it to her advantage, to secure her place here, to establish some agency and independence. And she wonders why it makes her feel so warm. 

*

The rest of the day goes by in a blur, for Caleb anyway. He doesn't even get time to come and see Jester, which is...frankly ridiculous. They can't even  _ rehearse for the wedding _ at the same time? He has half a mind to go find Beau and shout her ear off until she fixes things — but he doesn't have time to do that either.  _ Scheisse, _ it will be a relief when all of this is over.

That's not a particularly comforting idea by the time the wedding morning rolls around, though. On second thought, maybe he wouldn't mind another two weeks of planning. Or three weeks. Or forever.

Jester wakes up before the sun and lays in bed, staring up at the canopied ceiling, waiting for someone to come tell her it’s time to get up. After an hour or so, she wipes the tears from her eyes, clears her throat, and Sends a message to her mother. 

"Hi Mama," she half-whispers, watching the faint grey light of dawn creeping through her window. "Getting married today. No big deal. I wish you were here. They finished fitting me for my dress yesterday, it’s amazing, you should see it…"

The spell fades, as it always does after just a few sentences. Jester’s eyes burn with new tears. 

_ I am so proud of you,  _ she hears her mother’s voice in her head after a few moments.  _ Be careful and be strong, but try to enjoy yourself too, no? A big party, lots of food, dancing...you must write and tell me everything.  _

Jester sighs and rolls onto her side to stare at the curtains around her bed, all red and gold silk brocade.  _ Try to enjoy yourself.  _ Easier said than done. She’ll be walking up that aisle alone, with the eyes of a whole kingdom on her, and she’s sure at least half of them will be hoping she somehow fucks up.

"Traveler," she whispers, "be with me…"

*

Hours later, Caleb is reluctantly standing still while his dressers make last minute adjustments to his robes, his cloak, and, worst of all, his crown. 

"I cannot even stop by and wish her good luck?" he murmurs to Veth, who is standing nearby. "I won't  _ look, _ but surely a  _ word..." _

Veth is adjusting her flower headband in a nearby mirror. "I don’t know," she replies, determinedly not looking at Caleb so that she doesn’t tear up. "It’s not exactly protocol, but you  _ are  _ the king, you know."

"Will Beauregard yell at me?" Caleb mutters. "Will you shoot her if she yells at me?"

"Of course," Veth replies immediately. She wipes a speck of dust —  _ just dust, nothing else  _ — from her eye as she turns to face him. "Do what makes you happy, Caleb. That’s all I want for you."

*

There's a soft knock on Jester's dressing room door some time later.

"Jester?" calls Caleb quietly, trying to pretend that her bodyguard isn't standing  _ right there _ a few feet away from him. "Don’t open the door, but…"

She disobeys almost immediately, cracking it open just enough that she can peek through without letting him get a look at her dress. 

"Beau’s going to kill you, you know," she greets him with a faint smile. 

"Probably," Caleb exhales.

He's dressed in dark blue today, apparently to set off his eyes, according to Veth — not that that makes any sense, because no one's going to be seeing him up close today except for Caduceus and Jester, and they certainly don’t care. His crown, robes, and the heavy ceremonial mantle are all waiting back in his dressing room, to be put on just before the ceremony itself. For now he’s wearing a simple jacket, trousers, and black boots. 

He still feels like he’s suffocating. Only a little under an hour, he thinks, before he has to don the mask. 

"How are you feeling?" he asks Jester in a hushed voice, leaning closer to the door, his gaze locked on hers through the small crack. 

There’s a pause as Jester processes his question. She hadn’t expected him to come check on her. His thoughtfulness still takes her aback, even though she’s pretty sure it shouldn’t by now. Beau’s voice from yesterday echoes in her memory:  _ "Like I said, Caleb likes you." _

She swallows. "I’m feeling...hungry," she replies stupidly. "Um. Well, also kind of nervous, you know, but it’s  _ fine,  _ this is gonna be easy."

"Easy. Ja, sure." Caleb rests his forehead against the door. "For you, maybe."

She remembers his words a few days ago, about speaking in front of crowds, being the center of attention. A little sliver of ice in her heart melts. 

Caleb pauses. "Will you...give me a smile while we are up there? In case I am starting to lose it?"

Jester bites her lip, her gaze shifting to stare at her left hand braced against the doorframe. Caleb’s ring is practically winking back at her. 

"I can do that," she murmurs, wondering why the idea makes her face feel hot. It’s stupid. It’s just a  _ smile.  _ "Just, you know, pretend no one else is there. Just me. And, you know, Caduceus. And...all of the other...people." She winces a little. "It’ll be totally fine."

Caleb manages a small smile. "Danke," he murmurs, and then he takes a slow, deep breath. "Well. Good luck, Jester."

"Caleb," she says before he can walk away. 

He has just taken a step back, but he moves closer again, his heart pounding. "Ja?" he whispers.

"Just — you know." She pauses, hand tightening around the doorknob. "We can do this. Don’t worry about anything else. Just keep your eyes on me."

Caleb has to take a moment, swallow, breathe through the tightness in his throat before he can respond softly, "Thank you, Jester."

She feels herself blush deeper, and just nods. 

With a sigh, Caleb taps the door lightly with one knuckle. "See you soon. Get something to eat." 

Then he's heading back the way he came, staring at the floor as he walks briskly and repeats Jester's words to him in his head. 

_ We can do this. Don't worry about anything else. Just keep your eyes on me. _

*

The wedding ceremony is  _ loud. _

It has to be. It's crowds of guests, fanfares, an orchestra, a choir, all in this huge, echoing great hall. Trumpets announce the arrival of the king, cheers and applause greet him as he ascends the dais before the thrones, and then the national anthem must be performed before the ceremony can proceed. 

Caleb is dressed in all his regalia, the invisible mask of the gracious and powerful king settled firmly over his features, despite how much he wants to crawl away and die inside. No one is even up here with him but Caduceus. Kings, it has been patiently explained to him, do not have friends stand up with them during their weddings. He has no equal, especially not on this day. 

No equal but his queen, Caleb thinks, watching the doors of the Golden Hall as the music swells and the room seems to hold its breath.

On the other side, Jester barely has time to slip into her own mask — the gracious queen, the blushing bride — before the orchestra shifts to a new song, the crowd hushes, and Fjord and Yasha, decked out in their finest uniforms of the royal guard, open the doors. 

Thousands of eyes are suddenly staring at her. She swallows, takes a deep breath, and begins to walk. 

_ Oh, _ thinks Caleb. Just  _ oh. _

She is glorious. Her dress is in the imperial style, a white cloud of diaphanous silk studded with pearls and diamonds, sparkling under the many lights suspended through the hall. A long, flowing train trails behind her like a gentle waterfall. Her hair is pinned into elaborate twists and turns around her horns, all embellished with more pearls, more diamonds, and a sheer veil that cascades down around her shoulders. 

But it’s her face, lovely and bright, that captures his gaze and doesn’t let go.  _ Just keep your eyes on me,  _ he remembers. As if he could do anything else. Oddly enough it's doing nothing to calm his nerves — if anything his pulse is picking up faster, and he has to clasp his hands behind his back, because he's sure that if he doesn't, everyone, all the diplomats and dignitaries and councilors crowding this hall, will be able to see how sweaty his palms have grown. 

At least he knows that his expression has not wavered. He was trained too well for that. If he can hold a pleasant, polite smile even under torture, then he can certainly do so while staring at Jester Lavorre, radiant in her bridal finery, all white and blue and gold, with Caleb's ring sparkling on her hand.

It is another kind of torture, really, but he can stand it. Has to.

When she reaches him, he takes her hands. That's his only job for the next ten minutes, he tells himself: to hold Jester's hands and look into her face while Caduceus gives his speech.

Jester’s heart has been pounding like a drum all the way down the aisle — gods, who made this room so  _ long?  _ — but now the tightness in her chest relaxes just a bit as she grips Caleb’s hands and meets his gaze. It’s the first time she has seen him as his subjects see him, and she’s amazed to discover that he looks every bit the king he’s supposed to be. His mantle and crown seem to fit him perfectly, and his expression, calm and confident and self-assured...she  _ knows  _ it’s a mask, just like hers, but it takes her breath away. He’s handsome.  _ Incredibly  _ handsome, with those steady blue eyes, that strong nose, that sharp jawline…

Caduceus is speaking, something generic and appropriate about how this marriage is a partnership that will unite the kingdom or whatever, but Jester barely hears him.  _ Will you give me a smile while we are up there?  _ whispers another voice in her mind.  _ In case I am starting to lose it?  _

He looks perfectly composed, but Jester knows better. She holds Caleb’s gaze, and the smile she gives him is soft, small, and just for him. 

Caleb squeezes her hands. Just once.

After a few more minutes, Caduceus reaches the end of his speech, and the time for the vows has come. "Repeat after me, your majesty," he says, his voice magically amplified just enough that the crowd should all be able to hear him.

Caleb takes a deep breath and repeats the words. 

"I, Bren Aldric Ermendrud..." 

Not King Ermendrud, not His Imperial Highness, no titles — it was the best compromise he could manage, since he cannot use the name that really belongs to him. Does not even have the right to, really, because he is not marrying Jester as a man, only as a king. So Bren it is.

"...take you, Jester Lavorre, to be my wife." He takes a deep breath to steady himself. "I pledge to you my protection, my faithfulness, my support, and my friendship — "  _ Friendship, not love, _ he thinks dully — "for as long as we both shall live."

Jester’s eyes are locked on his.  _ We can do this. Don’t worry about anything else.  _

"I will be your rock and your shield; I will nurture your heart; I will strive every day to be worthy of your pride." 

He speaks in a low voice, not caring whether or not the amplification spell is working — the only person who needs to be able to hear him right now is Jester. 

"This I swear, on these rings — " Caduceus is holding them now, two slim silver wedding bands on a velvet-lined tray, for them to slip on in a moment — " in the presence of these witnesses, until the death of my soul."

There. He's said it. The only speech he has to give today. Now all he has to do is keep looking pretty, keep looking serene and authoritative, and let Jester finish what they have started.

Her voice wavers a little on the first few words, but she catches herself and regains control quickly enough. "I, Genevieve Lavorre, take you, Bren Aldric Ermendrud, to be my husband."  _ Genevieve and Bren,  _ she thinks with a little mental grimace.  _ I like Jester and Caleb better.  _ "I pledge to you my protection, my faithfulness, my support, and my friendship, for as long as we both shall live."

It doesn’t sound so bad, when you put it like that. A lifetime spent at the side of a friend. A kind friend, one who gives a shit about her feelings. One who treasures her. Because he — he does. She thinks he does, anyway. 

She hopes he does. 

"I will be your rock and your shield; I will nurture your heart; I will strive every day to be worthy of your pride." At this line she blushes, not with love or modesty like some of the crowd watching must assume, but with shame. She’s  _ not  _ worthy of his pride, is she? 

Well, there’s nothing she can do about it now. It’s far too late for that. 

"This I swear," she murmurs, "on these rings, in the presence of these witnesses, until the death of my soul."

And then it’s...done. 

Caduceus is saying something as he holds the rings out to them, but later Caleb wouldn't be able to tell you the words if you held a knife to his throat. He is relieved to see his hands are steady as he slips Jester's wedding ring onto her finger, and as soon as she's done the same to him, he hears Caduceus's mellow voice announce, "You may now kiss your queen."

They are far enough away from the guests in the front row that Caleb takes a chance, hopes no one can see it as he looks Jester in the eyes and silently mouths,  _ May I? _

Jester’s heart stutters. She gives the smallest dip of her head and mouths back,  _ Yes.  _

He bends his head and kisses her. As softly as he can, though it sends a tremor through him like a shockwave. Vaguely in the back of his mind he’s aware that the crowd is applauding, but it’s drowned out by the taste of Jester’s lips, the heat of her breath, the softness of her skin. He commits every detail of this to memory. After all — the thought stabs him — this may not just be their first kiss, but also their last.

And then Jester’s hand is resting against his cheek, gentle and hesitant. She’s not sure how it got there, unless it was just instinct: she knows, in whatever part of her mind is not overwhelmed by the shocking sweetness of this kiss, that everyone can see her rings sparkling on her hand, that they’re painting a perfect, romantic picture of a king and queen in love. The narrative, she reminds herself. The story. 

Finally the moment is over, and they’re pulling away from each other, Jester’s hand dropping back to her side, Caleb taking a step back and catching his breath. 

He can't look at her. Oh, god, he can't look at her, not after this. Her touch burns on his cheek even after her hand has left, and Caleb clears his throat, ignores the rushing in his ears that is blocking out whatever Caduceus is saying now, and forces himself to look out to the crowd of guests for the first time today. He is their king. It's his job now to smile, and to wave, to make eye contact with as many of his subjects as he can, because that's why they're here, isn't it? Not just to catch a glimpse of the king, but for the king to catch a glimpse of  _ them. _ So he does. Stares out at the Golden Hall, and smiles, and waves.

Jester is watching him, a thousand thoughts and feelings swirling through her, and she’s just reaching out to take his hand when she sees his smile fade. His face goes pale. 

The mask falls forgotten on the floor.

"... _ Astrid?" _ whispers Caleb.

_ to be continued  _


	5. Chapter 5

It’s only an instant. Blink, and you might miss it, and then Caleb’s careful mask is back in place, and he’s taking Jester’s arm in his to lead her down the aisle. The applause is ongoing, and he stares straight ahead, an empty smile on his lips, forcing himself to walk and not run as they traverse the length of the huge room and out through the double doors.

Jester follows automatically, unable to look away from Caleb’s face.  _ Astrid.  _ She wants to ask him who that name belongs to, how it could make him go so terribly pale, but she can’t, not until they’re alone. So she floats along at his side, trying to look like a queen — because she’s a  _ queen  _ now, she has a  _ husband,  _ she’s a  _ wife,  _ she’s  _ married  _ — and keeps her mouth shut, holding back the curiosity that’s roaring in her chest. 

_ It’s the happiest day of your life,  _ she tells herself.  _ You’re not going to be distracted by some stupid mystery. You’re a beaming, blushing bride. You don’t care about any Astrid.  _

The reception is being hosted in the Silver Hall, which means there’s time, during the short walk there, to steal a few private words with Caleb. Jester squeezes his arm gently and whispers, "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he murmurs without looking at her. 

"What was that, back there?" she pushes. It’s just curiosity, she tells herself, not concern. "Who’s Astrid?"

"It’s  _ fine."  _

Caleb lets go of her arm and shoves open the doors to the Silver Hall, and then they don’t speak to each other again for a long time. 

They can’t. The guests are pouring in, bottles of wine are being opened, tables of food are being uncovered, and Jester finds herself separated from Caleb. She is surrounded instead by a throng of well-wishers who curtsy, bow, shake her hands, tell her how stunning she looks, how happy she looks, how she must be so thrilled, how they are going to have such beautiful babies, how she is truly a jewel in the king’s crown.

She wonders how many of them mean it, and how many of them are silently hating her beneath their flattery. 

It’s a good ten or fifteen minutes before there’s even anyone she recognizes. Lord Brenatto steps up to her, smiling. Veth’s husband, Yeza, Jester remembers. She has met him a few times, and his familiar face is a relief as he gives her an awkward half-bow and asks, "How are you holding up, your Highness?"

Jester wants to tell him the truth: that she desperately wants to leave this glittering hall, wants to corner Caleb alone and pry his secrets out of him, wants to eat something, or lay down, or just take a break from this endless parade of handshakes and congratulations — 

But she is a queen now. So instead she smiles and murmurs, "I’m well, thank you, Lord Brenatto. Are you enjoying the festivities?"

He gives a nervous little laugh and fiddles with the glasses perched on his nose. "Uh. I guess, yeah. I don’t really know how to...This is all pretty overwhelming. I’m not really a lord, you know." His cheeks flood with color. "I mean — I — I am, they gave me and Veth titles, obviously, but…" 

He leans in a little closer, and Jester bends down slightly, since the halfling is a good two feet or so shorter than her. 

"My parents were farmers in Felderwin," whispers Yeza. "I never even left home till about a year ago."

Jester grins, the tight knot of anxiety in her chest loosening slightly. "No wonder I like you both so much. If one more arrogant nobleman corrects me on his stupid title, I might run screaming from the room."

Yeza laughs. "Want to grab something to eat? I’m pretty sure you’re allowed, it’s your wedding."

She nods eagerly, and they start heading towards one of the richly laden refreshment tables. On the way, Jester catches sight of a flash of red hair off to the side. Caleb is standing in an alcove, half hidden from the rest of the room, and he’s not alone.

There’s a woman with him. She looks older than Jester, probably closer to Caleb’s age. Human. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a simple coiffe, and she is wearing a dress that looks barely formal enough for this sort of occasion. 

Caleb doesn’t seem to care. His expression is a dozen different things at once — disbelief, tenderness, shock, joy — as he lifts a gentle hand to touch this woman’s cheek. Jester can’t make out what he murmurs to her. He looks on the verge of tears.

Something dark and poisonous curls in her stomach as she watches them. So this must be Astrid, then. No wonder Caleb had reacted so strongly, Jester thinks. She’d react strongly too if her — her —  _ lover  _ showed up and caught her by surprise at her own wedding. Because that’s what Astrid is, what she must be, judging by the way Caleb is touching her so gently, the way he’s  _ crying. _

Of course he has a mistress. That’s fine, she doesn’t  _ care,  _ that’s not what’s sending anger burning bright and sudden through her veins. It’s the fact that he’s putting her on display like this, sharing this obvious and tender moment with her in  _ public  _ where  _ everyone can see,  _ where everyone will realize that his marriage to Jester means nothing, that  _ she  _ means nothing, that she’s a convenient political tool and nothing else — 

She clears her throat and leans down to whisper to Yeza. "Who is that speaking to the king?"

Yeza turns to follow her gaze, and his eyebrows fly up. "Oh... _ wow,  _ she’s — she’s  _ alive,"  _ he murmurs. "Oh my god. That’s Astrid, she’s...we all thought she was dead. Oh my god."

"She looks pretty alive to me."

"She helped us," explains Yeza in a hushed voice. "Months ago, when we were fighting..." His voice drops to a near-whisper. "...King Ikithon. But she’s been missing ever since then."

"Pretty funny how she managed to show up today," Jester murmurs. She takes a deep breath and straightens up. "I suggest you go to your king, Lord Brenatto, and inform him that he’s going to cause a scene if he keeps this up much longer." 

Yeza blanches. "Right. No, I mean — it’s not — I’m sure he’s not — I’ll just go do that then."

He leaves Jester’s side and crosses the room, and when he gets Caleb’s attention and murmurs something to him, Caleb drops his hand from Astrid’s face. He looks across the reception hall and his eyes lock with Jester’s, pale blue and completely closed off. 

"We will talk later," Caleb says quietly to Astrid as he continues to gaze at his bride across the crowd. "This is a bad time."

_ Asshole,  _ Jester thinks.

Well, at least one of them should put some effort into keeping up appearances, and if it's not going to be Caleb, then Jester will have to pick up the slack. She could almost laugh, imagining Mama's reaction to watching Jester perform like this, to seeing her daughter actually caring about propriety. And the Traveler — she bites her lip — he must be losing his mind right now.

But this is the way it has to be. She'll scheme up some truly excellent pranks to make up for it later. For now, she turns away from Caleb and melts back into the crowd for more curtseys and congratulations. 

"Look how she glows," she hears someone whisper, while she clenches her jaw and tries to banish the memory of Caleb's hand brushing against Astrid's cheek.

"We are so pleased to welcome you to the capital," gushes the Archmage of Antiquities, while Jester smiles and refuses to think about why she's so furious.

"Beautiful  _ and  _ witty!" declares the Duke of Darrington to his circle of friends, after Jester has made some light comment about the difference between imperial and Nicodrani fashion. She grits her teeth and laughs along with them, the image of Astrid's simple dress burned into her brain.

It goes on like this, through the lavish dinner with its long and rambling toasts, through the presentation and cutting of the enormous wedding cake, through the dancing. Caleb is quiet, barely touching his food, barely speaking more than a few words to Jester even while he's sitting beside her for the whole room to see. His smile when they cut the cake is tight and false. And Jester is pretty sure they're expected to dance together when the music starts, but Caleb makes no move to take her hand and lead her onto the dance floor. 

He hardly looks at her all night. She feels small and cold, like her heart is a stone. Like she's a discarded ornament, cracked and abandoned on the floor.

Finally it's over. They leave arm in arm, the king and his queen, while their guests blow kisses and toss flower petals, laughing and whispering lewd jokes to each other. Jester's face burns with embarrassment all the way down the long corridors that end, at last, at the royal apartments.

The doors shut behind them, and they're alone.

It's the first time Jester has seen her new rooms, and she allows it to distract her, walking around and examining everything while Caleb removes his cloak and hangs it up. They're in a sitting room with couches, bookshelves, a small dining table, and a fireplace. Two doors on opposite walls lead into their separate bedrooms, with other rooms beyond: bathrooms, dressing rooms, private studies and so on.

She pokes her head into one of the bedrooms and sees that her things have been moved here, including the pink desk chair. Good. That's good. 

Caleb takes off his crown, feeling flushed and clumsy, and sets the hated ornament down on the nearest surface. Outside, the evening sky is darkening to a velvet blue as the stars peek out one by one.

He crosses the room and draws the curtains over the windows.

"So." Jester is leaning against her bedroom door, arms crossed, staring at him. "You had to talk to her right there, huh? Couldn't even wait till after the reception?"

He turns to face her, his expression carefully blank. "That was not what you think it was," he says softly.

"Does it really matter?" Jester retorts. "If I thought it, what do you think everyone  _ watching  _ thought? You weren't as well-hidden in that corner as you think you were."

Caleb looks at her for a long time, saying nothing. Then finally he replies, still in that quiet voice, "There will be nothing else for anyone to see. That was...I was taken off guard, and I slipped. I am sorry." He takes a deep breath. "It will not happen again."

Jester clenches her jaw, feeling stupid, and childish, and  _ alone.  _ Caleb's soft voice isn't helping — she wishes he would snap at her, argue, fuel the fire crackling in her heart. But he seems determined to keep things civil. She's not sure she's ever been more frustrated in her life.

"Fine," she mutters, and she turns away to start taking off her veil. The clasp is stuck in her hair and she hisses a few Nicodrani curses through her teeth as she struggles with it. "Come on, fuck…"

Caleb watches her, wanting to help but painfully aware that it's probably the last thing Jester wants right now. He's just publicly embarrassed her at her wedding. The shame burns hot in his chest. 

He could  _ strangle  _ Astrid.

"Jester…" His fingernails dig into his palms. "Jester, I swore a vow of faithfulness to you. I meant it."

She doesn't even glance at him. "You don't have to. What king would?"

"I..." Why can’t he breathe? It feels like he’s been stabbed somewhere just below his ribs, like the wind’s been knocked out of him. "Jester…"

"Do what you want," she mutters, ignoring the humiliated tears stinging her eyes as she continues to tug at her veil. "Just don't do it in front of people. That's all I'm asking."

Caleb swallows hard. "It will not happen again," he repeats. There's nothing else he can say.

He glances at the bedroom door. It’s been looming in his mind all day. All week, really. 

"I want you to know..." Gods, why does his voice sound so  _ weak? _ "We can...sleep separately tonight. If you want." As if she could possibly want anything else. It’s laughable. "I will not...touch you, until you ask me to."

Jester finally turns to face him.

What is she supposed to say to that? She straightens her shoulders and blinks back her tears. It's not like she's some naive young girl terrified of her wedding night — she knows what to expect, she's prepared for this. It's what she signed up for, her  _ marital duty,  _ even if she's been purposefully avoiding thinking about it ever since she got here, even if she's so angry with Caleb that she can barely think straight right now.

She meets his gaze almost defiantly. "It's fine," she replies. "Provide an heir, that's my job. No reason to...to be weird about it."

Caleb steps closer. His chest aches. She is maybe the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen, but her anger and humiliation and hurt are unmistakable. 

"I will not touch you until you  _ ask _ me to," he repeats quietly, looking her in the eyes. 

_ You'll be waiting a long time  _ is her first thought as she stares back at him, jaw clenched. But...damn him, she's so tired, and despite her resentment she can tell that Caleb is  _ trying,  _ that he's as uncomfortable and lost as she is.

She sighs. "We're married, Caleb," she murmurs, feeling some of the anger bleeding out of her to be replaced by exhaustion. "It's what we're supposed to do."

"I don’t care what we are supposed to do," he blurts out. "Is this what you  _ want?" _

What does she want? She wants out of this huge awful dress — she wants Astrid's face to vanish from her memory — she wants her Mama, wants to be home in Nicodranas. She wants a lot of things, she thinks, gazing at Caleb's face. 

"No," she finally murmurs. "Not...not tonight."

Caleb nods. "Okay. As long as you need." He takes in the sight of her, her eyes brimming with barely-held-back tears, the tension visible in her neck and shoulders, the unhappy flush in her cheeks, and he thinks:  _ Forever. She’ll need forever, and it’s right that she should, you piece of shit. _

He could kick himself for ever imagining that she would have said yes.

"Thank you," Jester murmurs. "Um. Could — would you help me with my veil?"

Her words settle in the space between them, like a peace treaty or an olive branch. Caleb crosses the remaining distance to stand in front of her. As gently as possible, he reaches into her hair and starts untangling the veil. Jester isn’t a queen regnant, only a consort, so she doesn’t have a crown of her own, but her attendants have set the veil into her soft dark blue hair with half a dozen tiny, pearl-clustered crystal combs, and one of them is snagged just below the base of her left horn. He pulls it out and sets it in her hand before removing the rest of the veil entirely.

"You look beautiful," he finds himself murmuring. "I should have said so earlier." Pretty low bar for a man to tell his bride on their wedding day, he thinks, and he hadn’t even managed that.

Jester searches his face. He's exhausted too, she realizes, noting the lines around his eyes, the paleness in his cheeks. A twinge of guilt flickers in her stomach. This is the same man who held her hands while they said their vows, she reminds herself, the same man who asked her for a smile, the same man who has admitted that he doesn't know what he's doing, that he needs her help.

She takes the veil. "Well, there was a lot going on. I can't really blame you for being distracted, you know?"

"It was a long day," he admits, watching her fiddle with the veil in her hands. 

"You looked handsome." Jester's gaze drops to Caleb's chest, and she huffs out a small laugh. "I mean, you always do, but today you looked, you know...extra  _ kingly." _

He stares at her.

"I'm sorry we...fought, or whatever," she adds in a mumble.

Caleb brushes a knuckle under Jester's chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry too," he murmurs. "I was...not a very good bridegroom today, was I."

"There’s room for improvement," Jester admits, cracking a wry smile. "We'll have to work on that."

He manages to smile back. "Among other things."

"At least the hard part is over now, you know?"

"Oh, Jester, I think the hard part is just beginning," Caleb breathes, sadness and weariness mingling in his voice. "Now we have to rule."

His words hit her in the chest. He's right, she thinks, watching him step away and pull off his jacket to toss it into the couch. She shifts awkwardly on her feet and glances at her bedroom door. She's in too deep. She's let them get past her walls, Caleb and everyone else here, Rexxentrum and the Empire itself: she  _ cares  _ now, wants to make sure that she does a good job for  _ their  _ sake as well as her own. It's infuriating, it's frustrating, and it...it  _ matters. _

_ Fuck,  _ she thinks.

Caleb turns back towards her, runs a hand through his hair. "Um. I am going to bed." He clears his throat. "I will see you in the morning, then."

She nods. "Night, Caleb."

"Goodnight, Jester," he replies softly, before disappearing into his bedroom.

Jester watches him go, then turns around, heads into her own room, and begins undressing. The wedding gown slips from her shoulders into a pile on the floor. She leaves it there, stepping over it and climbing into another new and unfamiliar bed, pulling the covers up to her chin, staring at the ceiling in the near-darkness.

_ Now we have to rule. _

She wonders how the hell they're going to do that if they're already such a mess.

_ to be continued _


	6. Chapter 6

6

"How is wedded bliss treating you?" asks Ophelia Mardun dryly. 

Caleb glances up from the map he's studying and tries to keep his annoyance from showing on his face. "Fine. Can we keep to the subject at hand, please?"

It's been three weeks since the wedding. A very _tense_ three weeks, and not just because things between him and Jester are still...frosty, at best. The unrest in the Empire, which Caleb and his council had hoped would be dwindling by now, has only increased. 

It's not like they haven't been _doing_ anything about it. Caleb rubs his aching temples. The army has sent troops to various corners of the country — Trostenwald, the Ashkeepers, the hill country outside Kamordah, even Ophelia's own stomping grounds at Shady Creek Run — to deal with the splinter rebellions that keep breaking out now and then, and Ophelia's spy network has done a decent job of catching more than a few before they've had the chance to break out at all. But they keep flaring up, like an infection that won't die. Against the advice of some of his councilors, Caleb has insisted, thus far, on light sentencing for all but the most egregious treason, resorting to prison time or even pardons instead of summary execution like his uncle would have done. Policies like that are what made Ikithon unfit for the throne in the first place, he'd argued, and if unhappy citizens see that Caleb is a king of mercy and wisdom, eventually they'll be mollified and peace will be restored. 

He's been arguing this for months. Unfortunately…so far, Ophelia and her faction are the ones whose opinions seem to be proving right. 

Now she fixes him with a keen, cold stare that he has become very familiar with. "All right, then, the matter at hand." She points at the map. "Your old pal Eodwulf is causing trouble in Berleben again. We believe that he is helping hide a group of insurrectionists in the Labenda Swamp, acting as a go-between to keep them supplied with food and weapons. We don't know who is funding them yet, but Darktow is a good bet, or possibly Xhorhas, of course."

Caleb shakes his head. "I trust Essek. If he says that the Bright Queen supports us — "

"You trust everyone," Ophelia snaps. 

He levels a scathing glare at her. "Rest assured, that is not true. But I did not mean to contradict you, only that if Kryn powers _are_ funding Dwendalian rebels, I think it unlikely that they are doing so with Leylas' knowledge." He holds up his hands. "But I could be wrong. Please, continue."

"Posters have begun appearing overnight in Berleben, calling for your assassination." Ophelia spreads one out on the table between them: a stained and torn document, written in both Zemnian and Common. 

Caleb leans over and squints at it. "Does that say — are they offering a _reward?"_

"It would seem so."

"They must think my subjects fools. You would have to be out of your mind to think that you could kill the king and live to _collect,_ much less spend, a sum like that." 

"Some of your subjects _are_ fools," she replies, rolling the poster back up and shoving it into her coat. "Do you remember Obann?"

"Don't remind me," Caleb mutters. He massages his temples again; he's getting a headache, maybe he should see Caduceus after this meeting. "So what is the plan, with Eodwulf?"

Ophelia narrows her eyes. "You know what I would _like_ the plan to be."

"And you know my response. We are not killing him."

"Then at least let us _apprehend_ him and hold him here!" Ophelia's fist slams down on the table. "I do not understand your _insistence_ on this, your Highness — "

"If we bring Eodwulf here," says Caleb wearily for what feels like the dozenth time, "then he has access to Astrid, and you understand why that cannot be allowed to happen. There is a reason she — " He cuts himself off. "It cannot happen. If you can show me proof — _proof,_ this time, Ophelia — that Eodwulf is involved, then find some other dungeon to throw him into. The Ashguard Garrison, perhaps."

"You have an appalling weakness for that woman," Ophelia practically spits. 

This time he doesn't bother hiding his irritation. "And you are too free with me. I am your king. Show a little respect."

"Like your wife shows you?"

There's a harsh scream of wood against stone as Caleb stands up, shoving his chair back. "Do not forget that my friends and I are the ones who pulled you out of the Iron Shepherds' grasp, Ophelia. We could have left you to rot, indebted to Lorenzo forever. So I will ask you _kindly_ to refer to my wife as her Imperial Highness the Queen, and to refrain from discussing our marriage at all. Is that clear?"

She doesn't so much as flinch. "My priority is your well-being, your Highness." Her voice is steady and quiet. "Of course I will make sure to address you more formally, even just between the two of us, if that is your wish. But you gave me this position in your court because I am not afraid to speak hard truths to you. You are too soft on these rebels. There is a time and a place for mercy, yes, but also for punishment. I understand your desire to offer people second chances — how could you not?" Her gaze doesn't waver. "But by the time you are offering fifth, sixth, and seventh chances, your authority has been eroded. Surely you must see that."

Caleb grips the edge of the table with both hands. "Any other hard truths you are bursting to share?" he asks in a tight voice. 

"Your marriage was a mistake," is her immediate reply. 

He takes a deep breath. "Ja, well, you are not the only one who thinks so. Is it relevant to this discussion?"

"Many of the same people calling for your death are angry that you chose a tiefling and a foreigner to rule over them."

 _"You_ are a tiefling and a foreigner," Caleb grits out. "How can you be so prejudiced towards her?"

"I am simply relaying the prejudice of others, your Highness."

He walks around the table to stand in front of her. "No, you were against the match from the start. You can barely speak a courteous word to Jester, it is like pulling teeth with you. Why is that?"

Ophelia's eyes flash. "Because I knew she would not be a popular queen! And even if she were, she is not…"

"Not what?"

"Not a _fitting partner_ for you," she blurts out. "Not for the king of the Ermendrud line, a line of _dignity_ and _honor,_ with the exception of your uncle. Do you know how things are done in Nicodranas, throughout the whole Clovis Concord, for that matter? Do you know what sort behavior they consider _acceptable_ there? Adulterous liaisons practically in broad daylight, debauchery in the streets, a drunken court and a whole city of smugglers and pirates for them to rule over. I have _been_ to the Menagerie Coast, your Highness. I have seen it with my own eyes. They say the late Marquis of Nicodranas died from a venereal disease, and his wife — "

"What do they say about his wife?" Caleb asks softly. "About the Queen's mother?"

Ophelia opens her mouth to reply, but she must catch a hint of the iron in Caleb's tone, and she wisely shuts it again. 

He leans close. "You will never bring up this topic again." Flames curl and caress the inside of his skin, his hands, his fingers, whispering to be let out. "You will be the picture of courtesy around the Queen. You will be _exemplary._ Or you will be on your way back to Shady Creek Run, back to your penniless estate, with nothing but your worthless title to clutch in your hands."

Ophelia's jaw tightens. 

"Do you understand, _Baroness?"_

"I understand," she whispers. 

Caleb steps back. "We are done here for today," he says over his shoulder as he leaves the room. "Speak with me tomorrow, if you can manage to string together a sentence without insulting me or my wife."

*

Jester's life will never be the same again, she thinks. 

The ring on her finger changes everything. Now that she is the queen and not just a foreign princess, people treat her with a deference that sometimes borders on _fear,_ and she finds that her requests are heard as commands to be obeyed, not meek questions to be brushed aside or ignored. But it's more than that. It's not just authority, it's responsibility. 

She has a _job_ now. She has to give speeches and kiss babies, has to juggle committees for charity and education and war relief. She has to pose for the royal portrait artist and approve the designs of the royal jeweler and the royal dresser. She has to plan banquets and visit hospitals and welcome visiting dignitaries and pretend that it isn't _weird_ how Ambassador Thelyss _floats_ to every council meeting he attends. 

Thank the Traveler she has Beau and Veth and Caduceus to guide her, and Fjord and Yasha to complain to at the end of a long day. Not everybody wants their babies to be kissed by a tiefling, not every committee agrees with her suggestions, and not every banquet goes off without a hitch. Some days she wants to _strangle_ half her staff. On those days, she tries to make time for a walk in the courtyard with Caduceus or an hour exploring the meandering castle hallways with Fjord, occasionally dinner with Veth and her family, or even a workout with Beau, who has converted some of her own apartments into a makeshift gym. 

But some days her friends are busy. Even Fjord can't always just drop everything to spend time with her. So she finds other ways to relax. 

In the back of her bedroom closet, she has hidden a small shrine to the Traveler. Nothing much, just a little wooden altar spread with a length of green cloth she stole from one of the royal seamstresses. She's set up a couple of tiny dick statues and some drawings of the Traveler that she's made. And, of course, her silver holy symbol, contraband smuggled all the way from the Menagerie Coast. It gleams faintly in the darkness each time she kneels to pray. 

She's pretty sure no one will find this here. It's not her huge, official wardrobe — that's in her dressing room, where the servants go. This is just her bedroom, as private a place as anyone could hope to find in a palace like this. Even if someone did stumble across it, what could they accuse Jester of? Sending messages to her Mama every night? _Occasionally_ asking for spells to make herself invisible so that she can sneak into the kitchens and steal a midnight snack? Talking to an old childhood friend when she's lonely? What exactly is it about her worship that's so illegal?

She wants to ask Caleb. But she can't. 

He's polite when they cross paths: they exchange _good mornings_ and _goodnights_ easily, even with a smile sometimes. She sees him at some of those council meetings and banquets, though he's often too busy to attend events like that, holed away with Baroness Mardun and Archmage Hass and Beau and the Shadowhand. Jester knows they're discussing important things, things related to the security of the kingdom, but apparently nothing that Caleb feels compelled to share with her. 

Every now and then she comes across him in their shared sitting room, curled up on the couch, Frumpkin purring on his lap as he reads a book. In those moments he looks almost at peace, his eyes scanning the pages rapidly, like he's forgotten anything else is there, even Jester.

Then he glances up and sees her, and that peace evaporates. 

She wonders if it's just Astrid that looms between them like a wall, or if it's something else. Astrid is another topic she hasn't managed to work up the courage to discuss with Caleb. A few times she's come close, but a crawling panic rises in her throat whenever she opens her mouth to ask, so she finally gives up trying. 

And every night they retreat into their separate bedrooms, like strangers, without a word. 

It bothers her. She's painfully aware that they need to...seal the deal, so to speak, pretty soon. Providing an heir is as much a part of her job as visiting hospitals and making speeches. One of these days, they're both going to have to push past this stifling awkwardness, her and Caleb, and do what needs to be done. 

Jester flushes a little just thinking about it. She remembers his kiss, those few moments when everything felt _perfect,_ right before he turned and saw…

She grits her teeth. _Should have stayed missing just one day longer,_ she thinks venomously. 

*

One morning, after Jester has bathed and dressed and allowed her attendants to apply a light face of makeup, she emerges from her bedroom into the sitting room and finds Caleb waiting for her. 

She blinks. He's just sitting there, idly fiddling with an empty inkwell, staring out the window. It's so rare that he's even _here_ at this time of day, and not already called away by his royal obligations. 

"Hi!" she chirps after a long pause, hoping she doesn't sound too startled. 

Caleb turns to face her, a faint smile on his face. "Morning." He sets down the inkwell. "You look lovely."

 _So do you,_ Jester thinks, gazing at him. The sun streaming through the window is hitting his hair just right, highlighting the gold and copper in his hair. It almost looks like a crown. She imagines putting those colors to paper, painting him just like this, framed in the morning sunlight…

She's blushing again. "Thank you," she manages, a little stiffly. 

Caleb stands up and smooths his palms over his plain trousers. "Do you have any plans for the next hour or two?"

"Um…" She actually doesn't, surprisingly, not today. "I was thinking of sabotaging Beau's meeting with Expositor Dairon...I have this really horrible stink bomb I made from some of Yeza's lab components…"

She's biting back a smile, and Caleb finds himself forced to do the same. Those are his favorite smiles of hers, the hidden, teasing ones, the ones that make his pulse jump and a little flicker of fire light up beneath his breastbone.

"That can wait for another time, surely?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Jester tucks a strand of hair behind her horn and leans against the wall, watching Caleb, her tail flicking back and forth. "I think I could push it back a few days, if I really have to. What do you have in mind?" 

Caleb lets his smile loose. "I have a few ideas," he says softly. "Come on." 

He leads her out of their apartments and down several corridors, through some doors, around some corners. Jester has been learning how to find her way around, it's true, but she hasn't explored this area yet, not the way they're going. Caleb seems to be taking her towards the palace's central courtyard, but then he turns left and starts heading up a spiral staircase. They must be inside one of the wide towers that Jester remembers seeing the first time she entered the city. 

"I have sort of been losing my mind, a bit," Caleb confesses as they go. "I am jealous of your free time."

Jester snorts, holding up the hem of her dress — a wonderful, soft silver material, warm enough for a Rexxentrum winter but light enough to let her move comfortably — as they climb the stairs. "What free time?"

He shoots her a glance. "Compared to me, I thought you had it easy."

"Not really." She pauses, remembering how utterly exhausted Caleb has looked every time she's seen him over the past few weeks. "Well. I don't know. Maybe. I guess hosting dinners and cutting ribbons is easier than...handling national security, or whatever you and Ophelia do in all those meetings."

"You have no idea," he mutters. 

Jester can feel herself settling into the old comfortable intimacy that she and Caleb were slowly cultivating before the wedding. "Technically, can't you just...decide you're not going in today? I mean, you're the _king,_ can't you say _sorry, closed today, leave a message?"_

Caleb laughs. "Very occasionally. That's what today is." He glances up ahead of them as they ascend the gently curving staircase. "Needed a day off. Thought you might like one too."

"I thought I'd have to convince you," Jester grins. "Seems I'm much more persuasive than I originally thought. So where are you taking me?"

"To your wedding present." Caleb runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat. "It is...very late, and I can only apologize, it took...longer than expected, with everything else going on." He glances at Jester and is relieved to see her smiling. "It was supposed to be done before you arrived, actually, but...better late than never, I suppose."

She stares at him for so long, taking her eyes off the steps, that she almost trips and has to catch herself with a hand on the wall. "You didn't — you didn't have to do that, Caleb," she stammers. "A wedding present, you didn't…"

"Well, you might have hated me." _Might still hate me,_ he thinks. "And gifts are for winning people over, ja?"

He offers her his arm to help steady herself. She takes it. 

"I mean, they win _me_ over. I love gifts." Jester's face is burning — she didn't get _him_ anything, didn't know she was supposed to — _was_ she supposed to? Is this Caleb being polite, or Caleb being _kind?_

"Here is hoping, then," murmurs Caleb, and when they reach the door at the top of the stairs, he pauses and holds out his hand, indicating that Jester should go first.

She hesitates, wondering what's behind the simple wooden door. It could be anything. It could be a monster. 

_That would actually be kind of cool,_ she thinks, taking a deep breath and pushing the door open. 

The first thing that hits her is the sudden waft of warm, balmy air. It carries a familiar smell, and it takes her a few moments to place it: the faint scent of spices, ocean salt, and something else...paint and canvas?

It smells like Nicodranas. It smells like _home._

Her breath catches in her throat. She is looking into a large, hexagonal room with a vaulted ceiling. The walls are glass, like a greenhouse, and the whole room is filled with tropical plants: palm ferns, coastal flowers, even a small fruit tree in one corner. Plants that would only be found on the Menagerie Coast, never in half-frozen Rexxentrum. And spread out among them, with a beautiful view through the glass walls looking out on the palace courtyard and the city beyond, are comfortable chairs, a writing desk, a few small bookshelves, a coffee table. 

And easels. Three easels, of different sizes, already fitted with canvas stretched over neat frames. Nearby on the desk are bottles of paint, a leather case of brushes, a smooth new palette. 

Several soft, golden globules of light drift here and there around the ceiling, illuminating the whole room. Snow is falling lightly outside.

Jester stands absolutely frozen, hands pressed to her mouth, for what feels like forever but may actually only be a few seconds. She doesn't know, doesn't _care,_ because all she wants to do is stare at this beautiful room for hours. It's Nicodranas and Rexxentrum at the same time, sparkling winter beauty shining through the glass walls, warmth and comfort kept safe inside. Two homes in one. The perfect balance. 

She turns to Caleb, her violet eyes _huge_ and filled with unshed tears. She's speechless. 

"This is a place to have for your own," Caleb murmurs, thrilling softly at the look on Jester's face, the joy in her beautiful eyes. "Just for you. There are wards set up around the glass, so it is safe to be alone here if you want, no one can harm you. I am not sure you should remove any of the plants — the climate is artificial and they would not thrive in our real weather, I think, but..." He's rambling, none of this is helpful. _Scheisse._ "Um. If you run low on any of the art supplies, anything, just let Bryce know, the steward."

"Caleb," whispers Jester. 

"The door is enchanted to admit you and any guests you bring with you, but no one else can — "

He barely has time to brace himself before Jester is tumbling into him, her arms wrapping around his waist, her face pressing into his chest. They've never hugged before, and it takes him completely off guard. 

"It's perfect, oh my god, Caleb, it's absolutely _perfect,"_ she breathes, her words muffled against his shirt. 

Caleb is frozen for a moment before his arms gently wrap around her in return. "I am glad you like it," he exhales with relief. "We wanted you to have a...a piece of home. I...I wanted." Gods, she's warm, she fits _perfectly_ in his arms, her head tucked under his chin, those elegant curved horns of hers nearly, but not quite, poking into his collarbone. He takes a minute just to hold her, one hand tracing a very small circle in the middle of her back.

Then he clears his throat. "Come over here, look out the window with me."

She gives him a parting squeeze before she lets go and follows him into the room. Her whole body is radiating warmth. She feels like she's glowing. 

The view through the glass is stunning. Facing north, they can see the expanse of the city, shining in the morning sunlight as gentle flakes of snow drift down around them.

"I have a proposal for you," says Caleb as he watches the snow fall.

Jester lets out a breathless laugh. "Another one?"

He blushes a little, aiming a wry smile down somewhere at his feet. "Ja, a little bit...yes. Well." His gaze flicks up to the rings on Jester's hand for just a moment before settling back on her face. "Jester...could we be friends?"

She tears her eyes from the snowy city landscape and blinks up at Caleb, her heart giving a painful little thump. "We — we are friends," she protests weakly...but that's a lie, isn't it? They've been living together, living _around_ each other, but they never spend any time together, not unless they have to. The last time they made any effort to get to know each other was before the wedding, over three weeks ago. 

Caleb gives her a _look._ "I mean real friends. I mean...friends who talk to each other and..." He holds out his empty hands, trying to find the right words. "Do things together. Trust one another. Have...have fun together."

He scratches his right forearm. _You're pushing your luck, Bren,_ whispers a voice in his heart. He knows it's right. The look of betrayal, and worse, _disappointment_ in Jester's eyes on their wedding day has haunted him over the past few weeks. He can't shake it. 

He has to try. 

"Maybe…" He clears his throat. "Maybe we could share a day off once in a while, like this. Once a week, if you wanted. Just...you know..."

 _I could use a friend,_ he wants to tell her. _I could use someone to laugh with me now and then._

But even Caleb Widogast has a few shreds of dignity left at the bottom of the barrel, and he keeps those words shut tight in his throat.

Jester bites her lip. He makes it sound so _easy,_ so simple. Like they really could do it, have a real friendship, a real life. 

She wonders if Caleb feels as lonely as she sometimes does. 

Without thinking about it, she reaches out and takes his hands. "I think that could work," she murmurs, holding his gaze. She swallows, feeling that same sense of almost tumbling over an invisible line in the sand — just as she'd felt the day she'd agreed to marry him. "I'd like that. I...I _want_ that."

Caleb smiles. It's like the sun breaking through the clouds. 

"Let me show you the city sometime," he says, squeezing her hands back gently. "But for today...what would you like to do, Queen Lavorre?"

Jester grins. "Paint."

She drops his hands and turns to survey the _gorgeous_ studio he's had set up for her. He must have consulted a lot of people, she thinks, to get the right kinds of pigments and canvases and everything else. Her chest feels full to bursting, her heart light and airy as a feather. 

"I have never seen you work, you know," comes Caleb's voice from behind her. "Can I stay and watch?"

She spins back to face him. "Of course! It might be kind of boring, though. We should order some breakfast up here, you need to eat, keep up your _strength,_ Caleb."

"That implies that I was ever strong," he says dryly. "But ja, I will message Veth." 

He reaches into the small leather pouch that he always seems to keep on his person, and Jester watches as he pulls out a short length of copper wire. Her pulse leaps. She's only seen him perform magic once before, when he resized her engagement ring for her. 

"Veth is generally in charge of the kitchens," Caleb explains with a wink. "Officially her jurisdiction ends outside of the treasury, but...well. You have met her."

"I've seen the pocket bacon," Jester nods. There's no reason to tell Caleb that she herself is usually involved in helping _obtain_ the pocket bacon, whether by legitimate means or not. 

Caleb grins, then whispers something into his cupped hands. The copper wire glows brightly for a moment before fading back to normal. 

There's a pause as he evidently waits for a reply; then he starts putting the wire away. "Breakfast is on its way."

"Do that again," Jester blurts out. "Do it to me. That spell."

She imagines it, for a split second: what it would be like to just _tell him,_ to show him _her_ magic, to compare what they can do, to explain the Traveler — but it's like someone pours ice water down her back. She shivers. 

Caleb is smiling, though. "Take a few steps back, ja?"

Jester walks across the room, standing by one of the easels. She forces herself to pay attention to this beautiful space, to the wonderful man in front of her, and not to think about what she's heard King Ikithon used to do to heretics. She doesn't _think_ Caleb would do those things — he's too kind, too understanding — but he's still the king of a nation that doesn't separate church and state, a nation where secrets are treated as crimes, where scourgers with scarred arms and cruel blades are still rumored to haunt the shadows of the city...

Soft words float into her mind. _"Du bist wunderschön."_ Caleb's voice, as clear and quiet as if he were standing right next to her, whispering into her ear. 

Jester releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She doesn't know what the Zemnian words mean, but somehow they ease the tightness in her chest. 

"Can you do that to anyone in the world?" she murmurs. 

Caleb crosses the room to her, returning the wire to his component pouch. "No," he chuckles, "only people I know. The better I know you, the further I can send the message." He opens his mouth to say more — hesitates — then continues, gazing down at her, "I could...teach you how to do it, if you ever wanted."

Jester's lips twitch. "Like, with books and magic ink, like you?"

"That is the only way I know."

She has to turn away from him to face the easel or she's going to burst out laughing. "I don't think that's really my style. I'd probably be pretty useless." 

Her fingers trail over the paintbrushes resting on the table beside the easel, while her eyes wander over the dozens of jars of paint. It's been ages since she's had materials this nice to work with. Caleb spared no expense. 

"What did you say, anyway? I almost never hear you speak Zemnian. Except _shy-zuh."_ She glances over her shoulder at him. "I think I said that wrong."

"You are not really supposed to hear me say that," Caleb replies, grateful for the opportunity to skip past her question. He takes a seat in one of the nearby armchairs. "It's not very _kingly_ of me."

There is just the slightest arch in his tone, subtle but familiar to Jester by now. Caleb is teasing her. Her heart stumbles and picks itself up again. 

"I think _you_ get to define what's kingly." She shoves her sleeves up to her elbows — there's no point in ruining this gorgeous dress, after all — and grabs a jar of orange paint. "I mean, you're in charge now. For the rest of your life. You can't spend the rest of your life letting other people decide what kind of ruler you are." She shrugs. "But what do I know. I'm not a king."

"No, you are a queen." Caleb sits back and watches her as she daubs colors onto her palette and starts painting. _"Eine Königin."_

He can't wait to see her come into her own, he thinks. To see her gain confidence, learn how to work with the system she's become part of, master the arts of diplomacy and hospitality and authority. She's already doing it — he has already seen her coming out of her shell, taking bold steps and testing the waters. When she starts to really take advantage of the power she's been given, to _rule_...oh, she will be a sight to see. She will be glorious. 

_I would have chosen you,_ Caleb thinks, _even if I had not needed a queen._

Jester is focused on the painting that's taking shape on the canvas in front of her, something orangish-brown and lumpy so far. _"Eye-nuh...kernuggen,"_ she repeats. "That sounds weird. Maybe you should teach me some Zemnian so I don't sound like an idiot."

She squints and adds a blob of orange to the canvas. 

Caleb smiles. "Will you teach me Nicodrani? We can trade. It is a beautiful language, from what I have heard." To be fair, everything sounds beautiful in Jester's tart, lilting accent. Even _eye-nuh kernuggen._

"Yeah, _mogao bih te naučiti,"_ Jester grins. She continues painting with broad strokes, humming a little under her breath when she's not speaking. 

She's painting Frumpkin, Caleb realizes. There are his ears, his spots, his tail — and now she's adding a tiny, lopsided golden crown to his head. 

"You know," Jester adds while she puts the finishing touches on the piece, "most kings want women and gold, but you're choosing days off and language lessons."

"You said I should define myself."

She pauses and glances at him over her shoulder again, her cheeks flushed slightly pink. "I think more kings could stand to be like you, Caleb," she murmurs. 

Then she drops her gaze back to her work.

He watches her in silence, a warm glow in his chest that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Jester's hands are deft, her touch clever and winsome, even with this painting that she's clearly rushing through with little effort: her creativity, her flair, her sly humor still come out onto the canvas, and Caleb sits there and takes it all in, just his wife doing a silly painting of his cat in a crown, and for the first time he lets himself think the words, _I love her._

*

They spend the rest of the morning up there in Jester's tower, eating a lazy breakfast, talking about everything and nothing. Caleb reads for a while as Jester continues to mess around with her paints. The snow continues to fall, and the lights continue to bob gently in the air above them like they're floating in the sea, and the day passes, and Caleb is...happy.

That evening, there is a gentle, timid knock on his bedroom door.

_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've been using Bosnian as a substitute for Nicodrani, so if there are any Bosnian-speakers reading this: I'm so sorry if Google Translate mangled what Jester said! It's meant to say "I could teach you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! This chapter is the reason why this fic is rated E. If you would prefer to skip the smut, search for the line "She glances to the side and wonders what they’re supposed to do now" and start reading from there!
> 
> Thanks to MagicalMxMalin for beta'ing this chapter.

7

Caleb opens the door. He's dressed for bed, just in a pair of soft sleeping pants and a loose long-sleeved shirt. "Is everything all right?" are the first words out of his mouth.

And there is Jester, standing before him in a gauzy nightgown, one that reveals a fair amount of her blue skin. Her hair curls gently around her blushing face and she’s fiddling with her hands anxiously. "Sorry, yeah, everything is..." She swallows, staring at him. "You — you said. You know. That I had to..."

And then she keeps staring. Like he’ll just...get it.

There is a long silence while Caleb stares back, completely still, hardly able to breathe. 

"...Okay." His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Okay. Ja. Not — " He glances back over his shoulder. "Not...not here, not this bed. Can we — "

He reaches out and touches Jester's bare arm. Doesn't take her hand, just rests his fingertips against her skin. 

"Can we go to your room?”

She nods, shivering under his touch. "Ja," she tries to tease, but it’s undermined by the breathless nervousness in her voice. 

Jester takes his hand and leads him after her. 

He follows, heart thudding in his chest, and when they have entered Jester's room Caleb stops her gently. "Have you ever done this before,  _ liebste?" _ he asks in a low voice, as the door swings softly shut behind him.

Jester swallows hard. She just shakes her head, watching him with huge eyes. Normally she would turn this into a joke, act offended by Caleb implying that she’s anything but pure and chaste...but her stomach is a mess of nerves, and words seem impossible.

"Okay." Caleb tries to inject a little bit of confidence in his voice, or reassurance at the very least. "We will...take it slow, then." He leads her over to the bed with both hands, unable to keep his eyes from roaming over her form swathed in that gauzy silk. "You set the pace,  _ liebste. _ Tell me if you need to slow down, or change your mind, or..."

There were going to be more words in that sentence, but his gaze has fallen onto the expanse of bare skin just above the neckline of her nightgown, where the soft swells of her breasts are just visible. Everything he was about to say evaporates into oblivion.

Very slowly, to allow her time to speak up if she doesn't want it, Caleb bends down and presses a soft kiss to the crook of Jester's neck.

She gasps, her head dropping back instinctively to give Caleb more room. She’s read plenty of romance novels, mostly stolen from her mother’s bedroom, so it’s not like anything unexpected is happening here, but the feeling of someone else’s lips —  _ Caleb’s lips _ — touching her bare skin is...indescribable. Her whole body has flooded with heat from this one simple act. Traveler help her, how is she going to stand the rest of it? 

Encouraged by her response, Caleb keeps going, trailing kisses gently along Jester’s shoulder as he takes a half step closer and his hands find her waist. It is impossible not to find himself responding to the warmth of Jester’s body, the softness of her skin — Caleb feels a groan building in his chest and he has to force it down, force himself to keep control, not to overwhelm her. As his lips brush across her clavicle he whispers, "Can I undress you?"

Never has his voice sounded so fragile to his own ears. He feels like he’s on the verge of shattering and he hopes to god Jester can’t tell.

"That — yes, Caleb," she stutters out, his hands on her waist grounding her even as his kisses send her floating under a hazy cloud of pleasure. She grips at his upper arms and whispers, "Please."

Somehow, between kissing her neck and removing her flimsy nightgown  _ (did she wear this for him? _ he wonders through the frantic beat of his pulse,  _ did she think of him while she was picking this out?),  _ they make it over to the bed, and now he gives the slightest pressure with his hands on her waist to ask her to sit. He can’t take his eyes off of her. She is naked in front of him, every curve and shadow bare to his gaze, and if he weren’t so sure that she was doing this out of obligation, if he thought she might truly want him...

_ Make her want you, _ whispers his heart.  _ Convince her. Seduce her. _

Caleb swallows. He’s not sure that he’s capable of swaying Jester under his power when he is already so swayed under hers.

Jester sits on the edge of the bed, her pulse thundering in her veins, and gazes up at Caleb. She’s entirely naked before him, and it doesn’t seem quite fair that he’s still got clothes on, but her courage has deserted her and she doesn’t feel bold enough to ask him to undress. Instead she just slides her hands down his chest to his waist, his hips, and then slips her hands under the fabric of his sleep shirt, ghosting her fingertips along his bare stomach. 

She hears him suck in a shaky breath. “Stop, I — I can only take so much.” He takes her hands in his own and then kneels down in front of her so that they’re eye to eye. A quick kiss to her hands, and then he murmurs, "Lie down, sweet, and let me touch you."

_ I can only take so much.  _ She’s doing that.  _ Her,  _ Jester Lavorre. The thought is intoxicating, like strong wine, and seems to echo through her whole body. She bites her lip and nods, then lies down on her back, her knees over the edge of the bed. 

“Please,” she whispers, remembering their first kiss, the way he’d caught her gaze and asked permission. Jester doesn’t want any confusion here. She just  _ wants. _

Caleb gently nudges Jester’s knees apart, and his fingertips graze across her cunt, tracing around her entrance. She’s warm and wet, and he can’t quite believe it, but...the evidence of his senses is right there. Jester is aroused. The thought shoots through him like lightning and he finds himself bending down, hooking Jester’s knees gently over his shoulders as he begins kissing her there, running his tongue along her sweetness, half of him wishing he had more practice doing this and half of him wishing he’d never touched anyone but Jester before in his life, all of him praying that she will find him...satisfactory? Skilled?  _ Enough? _

Jester arches up into his mouth with a broken moan. Her fingers twist into the silk sheets. She’s explored her own body before, given herself pleasure, but  _ nothing  _ like this. Caleb works her with his tongue, and his name slips from her mouth like a whimper as her hips press up against him. “Caleb.  _ Caleb…” _

He says nothing in reply, his mouth too busy pulling these incredible sounds from her, each one stabbing him in the gut with pleasure; but his left hand reaches up to twine his fingers with hers and hold tight. His right hand slips between her legs and he slides two fingers into her and — that’s too much, it draws a moan from his throat, the tight heat of her around his knuckles. If they weren’t both far past the point of embarrassment here, he would blush. 

He’s still blushing. Well. She can’t see, not with his face between her thighs.

Jester grips his hand back just as tightly, a jolt of arousal rippling through her at the sound of his moan. Caleb’s fingers are thicker than her own,  _ better _ than her own, and she wonders if she’s going to shake apart just like this, clenching down around his fingers and arching up off the bed to get more of his touch. 

In whatever tiny part of her mind isn’t overwhelmed with pleasure right now, it occurs to her that...this isn’t their  _ job.  _ No heir is going to be born from his tongue lapping at her clit and his fingers working her open. 

She doesn’t give a shit. 

"Caleb," she whispers again, voice trembling and weak.  _ "Molim te, nemoj prestati." _ Don’t stop, she thinks. Don’t stop.

Caleb holds her there, stroking her deep inside, his free hand pressing Jester’s hand down into the sheets like that will somehow keep them from floating away on this moment. Her taste coats his tongue like honey and he forgets to breathe, a little bit, as he presses against her.  _ Come soon, _ he thinks a little desperately,  _ come soon, I can’t wait. I can’t wait. _ Below the side of the bed he is achingly hard and there are knots in his stomach, the muscles there tense and rigid.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Almost like she can sense his desperate thoughts, Jester’s body convulses, locks tight under the intense bolts of pleasure that rocket through her, starting from where he’s tasting her and traveling all across her skin. Her hips buck and twitch and she gasps Caleb’s name as her orgasm washes over her, drags her with it into a sweet and heavy oblivion. 

"Holy  _ shit," _ she breathes out after a moment, her voice dazed and hoarse.

Caleb is breathing hard, taking a moment to rest his sore jaw, leaning his head against Jester’s thigh. He gives a few strokes of his thumb over Jester’s where their fingers are still laced together. "Are you okay?" he murmurs, meaning,  _ are you still here? Are you with me? _

"So good," she breathes, not caring how overeager or foolish she sounds. She stares down at him, at the way the dim light from the fireplace casts shadows across his skin, making his hair look darker, his eyes more intense. 

She swallows.  _ I want to touch too,  _ she thinks. 

“Come up here,” she murmurs.

Caleb obeys. It’s a little awkward as he climbs into bed and they have to clumsily shift positions until Caleb is on all fours above Jester, looking down into her face. 

He’s completely breathless. Jester’s eyes are dark with want. He shoves his pants down past his hips, then kisses the tip of Jester’s nose, then her mouth, and then carefully spreads her legs and guides himself into her.

He’s not going to last long, he knows at once. Thank god he’s already given her an orgasm. Even if it hadn’t been years since he’d done this, Jester is...overpowering. He can hardly blame himself.  _ I surrender, _ he thinks hazily, lowering himself so that he can take her in his arms even as he starts to move.

Jester clutches at his back, her other hand threading through his soft hair and tugging hard. This is so different from the feeling of his fingers inside her, it’s  _ more,  _ almost too much and yet somehow not enough, and she wants to beg but she doesn’t know what  _ for.  _ Instead she finds herself crying out, wrapping one leg around Caleb’s waist, shifting against him. He’s rocking back and forth inside of her, panting, and suddenly she’s struck by a powerful urge to get him to  _ make noise.  _

His neck, bare where the loose collar of his shirt has fallen open, is right there in front of her face. So she does the first thing that comes to mind and leans forward and bites it. 

_ "Jester — " _ Caleb’s strangled cry is cut off with a groan, and all at once he’s having to put all his focus into keeping a slow, gentle pace with his hips. "Fuck...Jester..." He pants her name and strains against her, already close, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to whimper. 

_ "Vodi me, molim te, ne idi," _ she murmurs back, her fingernails digging into his shoulder, wishing he’d taken off his shirt. She drags her teeth across his skin again and feels her cunt clench tight around him when he gasps in response. 

_ “Bitte,”  _ he chokes out,  _ “ich bin dein...ich bin dein…”  _

She’s a little mad with this — with the way his voice is wrecked and pleading in her ear, the feeling of him spreading her open and taking her, the thought of her teeth leaving marks on his skin. Inspired, she bites him again, but this time she doesn’t let go, letting her tongue lave and suck at the crook of his neck. 

Something between a grunt and a growl is ripped from Caleb’s throat as he comes  _ hard, _ Jester’s mouth completely undoing him. His hips jerk fast and rough and he spills deep into her for long seconds until he’s spent, gasping for breath, falling off of her to the side into the bedsheets, arms trembling with exertion. 

Jester’s breath is coming quickly too. Her whole body is strangely and deliciously worn out, like she’s just had an intense morning workout with Beau except...better, so much better. 

She glances to the side and wonders what they’re supposed to do now. Lie here together? Get up and go their separate ways? Try to fall asleep?

After a few moments, Caleb rolls onto his side to face her again, chest still heaving, and he brushes his lips against Jester’s bare shoulder. "Thank you," he whispers.

Jester feels herself blush hot. "Don’t  _ thank _ me, you weirdo," she manages, huffing out an exhausted laugh as she brushes a few sweaty strands of auburn hair from Caleb’s face. "That was...wow."

_ "Thank _ you," he repeats, and there’s a faint smile on his lips now. He nuzzles into her shoulder just a little bit. "I have been..." He suddenly finds he can’t look her in the eye and turns his attention to pulling his pants back up over his hips. “Um. I have been...looking forward to that,” he confesses softly. 

“I can see  _ why,”  _ Jester grins. She nudges him. “We really should have been doing this  _ weeks  _ ago, Caleb. It’s my fault.”

“Well.” Caleb glances up at her now, his gaze so soft it makes her ache. “Better late than never.”

There’s a long beat while he just looks at her. 

“Do you want me to stay?” he whispers. 

Jester stares back at him, eyes wide.  _ Fuck no, that’s too intimate,  _ is her first panicked thought, even as another part of her replies,  _ You just had his dick inside you but sleeping in the same bed is too much?  _

It’s a simple question. Surely she can provide a simple answer. 

“If — if you want,” she finally murmurs. “Yeah. Might as well.”

Caleb holds her gaze for a minute longer, and then he wraps an arm around her waist. "Roll over?" he asks, and when she does he moves in close, spooning her from behind, breathing in the scent of her hair. She smells like sweat and cinnamon and lilacs. He closes his eyes and just holds her. 

For a long time they lie there, comfortable and warm and silent, and then out of nowhere Caleb murmurs, "Astrid is not my mistress."

Jester had been starting to drift off, but now she stirs, blinking hard. 

“You touched her like she was,” she replies after a pause, replaying the image in her mind: Caleb’s hand stroking Astrid’s cheek, his eyes filled with tears. 

Silence. 

“So who is she then?”

Caleb clears his throat. “An old friend,” he murmurs. “Someone...I was close to, once.”

She can feel how tense his body has gone. She twists a little in his arms so that she can glance at him over her shoulder. “Close like  _ oh, you’re my super good friend,  _ or close like you had sex?”

There’s a long pause again before he finally says, very quietly, "Both."

Right. “You can just say that, you know,” she sighs, turning back to settle in his arms properly once more. “You don’t have to be like — " and then she’s imitating his voice, gruff and stilted — “An  _ old friend.” _

Silence.

Jester finds herself rolling her eyes even though Caleb can’t see. “It was obvious from the way you touched her. I wish you would’ve just admitted it.”

Caleb finds his voice after a moment, though it’s unsteady with emotion. "It was a long time ago.” He refuses to let the memories surface. “I just...it is important to me that you know that we are not...that it was a long time ago."

_ I swore a vow of faithfulness to you.  _ His voice on their ill-fated wedding night echoes in her memory.  _ I meant it. _

“It’s not…” Jester swallows. “It’s not...weird for a king to share his bed with women who aren’t his wife.” The words burn in her throat. “It happens all the time.”

“Not this king,” Caleb whispers. His arm tightens just a fraction around Jester’s waist.

Something in her chest relaxes. She believes him, she realizes. She sighs softly and murmurs, “You said you knew her a long time ago. Was it when you were a kid, or…?”

“That…” Caleb’s heart thuds. “That is a story for another time. I will tell you later, I promise, just...not now.”

“Yeza said she went missing,” Jester mutters. “And then she just...shows up at our wedding. With no warning.”

He sighs, his breath slightly ruffling the hair falling over the back of Jester’s neck. "Ja, I have...spoken with her about that. It was...inappropriate." His grip around Jester tightens even more, almost protectively. "She always had a flair for the dramatic. It was rarely in good taste."

Astrid’s voice drifts into his memory.  _ Do you love her? _ Those green eyes like poisoned daggers.  _ Are you going to give her children? Are you excited to be a _ father,  _ Bren? _

_ I will never not owe you, _ he thinks, the old grief still sharp in his breast.  _ I will never be able to turn you away. _

"It was a dick move," Jester mumbles. 

“Ja, it was a dick move,” he whispers back. He could almost smile, picturing the pouting expression he’s sure is on Jester’s face right now. 

“Is she...still here?”

"Yes." He cannot lie to the woman in his arms. "She is under my protection. That is all you can know."

Jester hates the way her whole body responds to his words, tension stiffening her neck and shoulders, something cold and sour twisting a knot in her stomach.  _ You shouldn’t have asked, _ her brain taunts.  _ You knew you wouldn’t like the answer. _

She closes her eyes and focuses on the arm across her waist, the heat of him along her back, the slight shifting of her hair every time Caleb breathes. “And you can’t tell me why. Or you  _ won’t  _ tell me why.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I…”

_ I don’t trust you enough yet, _ he thinks miserably.  _ With my future, yes. But not with my past. _

“Just promise me you won’t ever bring her here.” She sounds pathetic, and her cheeks heat with embarrassment, but she presses on. “I don’t want her in my rooms, or — or our rooms.”

“Then she will never be here.” Caleb takes a breath. “No one but you.”

“And you,” Jester can’t help but add softly. 

It’s a start. She thinks of her wedding gift, the tower room that she’s already coming to think of as her greenhouse, and the work that Caleb must have put into getting it ready. She thinks about promises and honesty, secrets and lies. She trusts him, she realizes, even if she doesn’t necessarily trust all the people around him.  _ Could we be friends?  _ he’d asked her this morning. And she’d said...she’d said…

A giant yawn interrupts her thoughts. “Mmm...fuck,” she mumbles, nestling closer to her pillow. “Thanks, Caleb.”

Soft against her skin she hears, “You are welcome,  _ meine liebe.” _

She wonders what the Zemnian means. She should probably...should probably ask…

But that’s her last thought before she drifts off into warmth and darkness. 

_ to be continued _


End file.
